


The Sign of the Five Year Old

by CharlieBravoWhiskey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Gift Exchange, Kidfic, Non-Graphic Violence, families, johnlockchallenges, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:52:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieBravoWhiskey/pseuds/CharlieBravoWhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Sherlock met John, John first met Mary Morstan.  They were on their way to living happily ever after but life has a way of throwing a wrench in the works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devinleighbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devinleighbee/gifts).



> For [devinleighbee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/devinleighbee/pseuds/devinleighbee) on [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com) for the [johnlockchallenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/). The prompt is: “Before John went into war, John’s girlfriend became pregnant with a baby girl. While in Afghanistan the mother dies leaving John as the sole parent of their child. Things then proceed into ASiP but this time there’s one little addition. Author’s decision on when the baby was born and the relationship between John and the mother, which will determine how old she is when ASiP begins. From there it can have whatever plot points the author wants.” 
> 
> So, this story kinda got away from me. I mean, 20,000 words? Really? Anyway, I tried very hard to get the spirit of the prompt. I hope you like it!
> 
> The very lovely [anangrylittlehobbit](http://anangrylittlehobbit.tumblr.com/) was my much needed beta. I am highly indebted to her.

_June, 2002_  
  
John Watson first met Mary Morstan not long after getting his medical degree.  He had stopped for a moment, trying to remove his tie, when he looked up and spotted her.  Even visibly upset and distressed, she was absolutely beautiful.  Words like ethereal and unreal had entered his mind, and the moment would become a memory that John cherished for the rest of his life.  Mary had looked up then, and gave John a heartbreaking smile when she noticed him watching her.  
  
“What’s wrong?  What can I do for you?” John had asked before he could stop himself.  He approached her slowly, hoping not to startle her.  
  
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mary said, her breath catching a little.  Mary would tell John later that she had talked to him because of his overwhelming sense of goodness and kindness that seemed to radiate from him.  John noticed that she was fiddling with a letter in her hands, trying not to smudge the writing .  “I just recieved this letter and...well, it’s just so silly and I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.  But this letter was from my father...and...” Mary said before bursting into tears again.  
  
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” John moved to put a comforting hand on Mary’s shoulder, brushing her blond hair with his hand, trying not to marvel at the softness, but when she she threw herself into his arms, he was naturally surprised.  Letting his kind nature override everything else, John hugged Mary tightly and made soothing sounds to calm her.    
  
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mary said after she let John maneuver her to a bench.  “I’m never this emotional.  You see, my father has been dead for ten years.  To suddenly have this letter show up out of the blue is just jarring,” she said trying to pull herself together.    
  
“Hey, it’s okay,” John smiled.  “I know what it’s like to have only one parent.  My father died when I was younger too and my mother had to raise my sister and I by herself.  Trust me, if you’ve ever met my sister, that’s a job in and of itself” he said trying to inject a little humor into the situation.    
  
Mary gave him a watery smile, eyes still shining, nose red, and cheeks pink from embarrassment.  John blinked, dazzled again by her and knew instantly that he had fallen in love.  “ _Oh, damn,”_ John thought wildly.  “ _What have you done now, Watson?”_  John blinked again, realizing that Mary was now staring at him, causing him to blush.   
  
“So, what about this letter, you mentioned?” he said trying not to look anywhere but her.  Mary sniffled again before launching into an explanation of her long-dead father and a mysterious letter.  John listened patiently as Mary explained the issue, but found that he couldn’t help her at all.  He still left his number with her, just in case she ever wanted to grab a coffee and just talk.  it was a long shot, but John wasn’t nicknamed “Three-Continents-Watson” for nothing.    
  
John smiled crookedly as Mary slept peacefully in his arms three months later.  “ _Sometimes,”_ he remembered, “ _things just happen for a reason.”_ Mary murmured in her sleep as John pulled her closer and kissed her forehead.  She had decided that the mysterious letter was the Universe’s way of placing John Watson in her path, and while she would never solve the mystery, Mary was happy of the ending.  
  
***  
  
 _February, 2005_  
  
“You’ll write to me everyday,” Mary said again while fiddling with his uniform.  She was fighting to keep the tears from spilling from her eyes.    
  
“Yes, Love, I’ll write everyday that I can,” John said gently, covering her shaking hands with his own.  “Hey, I’ve never let you down, have I?”  He tilted her face up to his looking into her eyes.  
  
Mary shook her head and bit her lip.  “But what if something happens to you like my father?”  
  
“I won’t be in direct combat, Love, you know that,” John said and hugged her tightly.  His hands rubbed circles in the small of her back, trying to soothe her.  “What I need from you though, is take care of yourself.  You’ve been ill lately and I want to you see a doctor.”  
  
“I have been seeing a doctor but he insists on leaving for Afghanistan and won’t give me a proper check-up,” Mary said, her head still tucked into John’s shoulder.  
  
“If I remember correctly, I believe I _gave_ you a proper check-up last night,” he replied, his voice dropping.  “And twice more this morning,” he added placing a kiss on her neck.  
  
Mary giggled and pulled back from John.  “I swear to god, John Watson, if you come back as anything less than whole I will murder you myself,” she said, leveling John with her best angry stare.  
  
“Oh, well.  That’s tempting then,” John quipped.  “Ow!”  he yelped as Mary swatted his backside before giving it a firm squeeze.    
  
“Promise me, John,” Mary said turning serious.  “Promise me that you’ll come back.”  
  
“I promise, Love.  I promise,” he said and crushed her against him kissing her soundly.  
  
***  
  
 _August, 2005_  
  
John received the letter shortly after he arrived in Afghanistan, and after three months of training and then three more getting situated in the base, it was almost enough to drive him crazy.  Slowly, he found a routine that suited him but he missed Mary terribly.    
  
He wrote to her everyday of life in the army, what his buddies were doing and even the gossip around the camp - anything to make it familiar.  John would have loved to talk to Mary everyday but the reception was too spotty and so he had to rely  on the post to communicate regularly.  But even with the post, sometimes weeks would pass before John received a bundle of letters from Mary.    
  
“Here you go, Watson,” a soldier said passing him a stack.  “She likes writing to you, huh?”    
  
“It keeps me going,” he grinned back.  John retreated into his tent with his packet, pulled the first one from the top and began reading.  Soon, he sighed, wiping his face with his left hand, while clutching the letter in his right.   _Well, you’ve done it now, haven’t you Watson?_  John straightened his shoulders and walked to his bunk to write a reply back to Mary.  If asked what he wanted in the situation, John would have replied that he would support Mary in whatever decision she made.  Secretly, John was thrilled.  He had dreamed of a calm little life after the army with a wife, children and a practice just outside of London.  While things were a bit out of order, John did not think that Mary minded much either.  It was the damn distance that was probably bothering to the both of them.  
  
 _I wonder why she told me now..._  
  
John shook his head and stopped writing his letter.  Instead, he got up to see if he could wheel and deal for time on the phone with Mary.  
  
“Mary?”  John asked breathlessly.  
  
“John?”  It was hard to hear her clearly through the static of the telephone.    
  
“Sweetheart, I just got your latest letter,” John said trying not to alarm her.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”  He could practically hear Mary biting her lip in worry.  
  
“I-I didn’t know if you wanted children.  Or what are plans were for the future,” Mary finally said after some tense minutes.  
  
“Mary, Love, I’ll do whatever it is you want to do.  If...if you don’t want to keep it, I’ll support you.  If you want to keep it, I’ll support you.  I’ll do whatever you want,” John felt himself begin to babble but kept a strong rein on his words.  
  
“I..I want to keep her,” Mary finally said.    
  
“Her?”  John couldn’t help but smile at her words.  
  
“Yeah, her,” Mary said.  He heard the relief in her voice and the whoosh of her breathe as she let it out.  
  
“You’re brilliant, you know that right?”  John felt tears start to well up.  
  
“I love you too,” Mary said and started crying.  
  
“Marry me,” John blurted out.  He could have smacked himself.  
  
“What?”  
  
John tried not to sigh loudly - this was _not_ how he wanted to propose to Mary -  and said, “will you please marry me, Mary Elisabeth Morstan, love of my life, mother of my _daughter_ and holder of my heart?”  John was suddenly aware that it had gone very quiet around him as the other soldiers tried very hard not to eavesdrop on his conversation.  
  
“Yes!” Mary squealed loudly into the phone, causing John to pull the receiver away from his ears.  Around him cheers spontaneously erupted and he was violently slapped on the back and hugged awkwardly, but John could only hear the voice of his beloved as they sobbed together.    
  
 _November, 2005_  
  
John had somehow managed to gain almost a month’s leave and in that month, John Watson became a husband and father almost simultaneously.  His mother, Harry, and Clara  fussed over him almost non-stop while he was home - bubbling and bursting into tears almost every ten minutes.  Their happiness was only outshone by John and Mary’s happiness.    
  
Since that day in August, Mary had flooded John with pictures, sonograms and almost minute-by-minute updates of their baby daughter.    
  
“I like these names:  Ainsley, Caroline, Evanna, Fiona, Iona, Isla, Moira, Avelina, Gillian, Ina and Aideen,” John said listing the names off in his head.  
  
“Ainsley?  Are you kidding me?  Ainsley Morstan-Watson?  Seriously?  No, just cross that off your list right this instant,” Mary shot back.  “Aideen and Ina are no names for a baby girl.  Moira is a bit of a mouthful and I don’t like Iona or Isla.  So, that leaves us with Caroline, Evanna, Fiona, Avelina and Gillian.  You got that?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” John deadpanned, biting his cheeks to keep from smiling.  
  
“And don’t you dare smile at me John Hamish Watson.  You should be sending flowers and chocolates to your mother, Harry and Clara since they have to be the surrogate you during this whole pregnancy!”  
  
John’s smile instantly dropped off.  “I’m so sorry, Love,” John said quietly.  “I’d be there if I could.”  
  
Mary sighed heavily, “Oh, John.  I didn’t mean it that way.”  
  
“I know, but I feel so guilty and things are just so...out of order,” John said drifting off.  
  
“Out of order?”  
  
“Oh, um...yeah,” John said realizing that he had just fallen into a trap of his own making.  
  
“You were planning on asking me to marry you?”  
  
“Um...err..yes,” John finally said a little defeated. He had dreamed of asking her during a picnic under the moon and stars.  John even had the engagement ring, thanks to months of careful planning on his part, but he settled  for the slipshod proposal and hoped for the best.  
  
“Prat,” Mary said affectionately, almost knowing exactly the type of proposal he had in mind.  
  
John laughed.  
  
 _How time flies,_ John thought nervously.  Despite being thousands of miles away, John never felt closer to Mary than he did those few months between August and November.   He never wanted to be one of those husbands who left their significant other to do everything while he did nothing, it made him feel useless being so far away from her.    
  
Before he knew it, John was standing in a small chapel filled with their family and friends - admittedly not too  many family members since Mary was an orphan and John did not have much family outside of his mother and sister.  What they lacked in family members they made up for in friends.  Despite this lack everyone within John and Mary’s family and friends couldn’t have been any happier for them.  Everyone was beaming and giggly over the wedding and the absolute joy in the air could not be denied.  
  
John eyed his reflection in the mirror and grinned broadly as  Clara brushed off non-existent lint from his shoulders and winked at him.  “You look dashing, Captain Watson,” she said and planted a small kiss on his cheek.  
  
“Oi!  You’ll get lipstick on his collar!  Then what will Mary think!”  Harry said as she rubbed the lipstick off his face.    
  
John continued to grin, not letting the smell of Harry’s whiskey-tinged breath affect him.    
  
After the ceremony, all John could remember was the brilliant smiles that seemed to light the entire chapel, filling it with such a brilliant and warm glow that it was all that John could do to not burst from the happiness that he felt.  He was pretty sure that Mary felt the same way, if he could judge anything from the ear to ear grin that she sported.  
  
“I love you,” John whispered.  Their foreheads touched as his fingers brushed over the wedding ring on Mary’s hand.  
  
“I love you, too.  My parents would have loved you,” Mary whispered back.  Suddenly, Mary gasped and clutched his hand.  
  
“Mary?  What is it?”  John said, panic filling his eyes.  
  
“Oh, my god.  I think my water just broke.”    
  
From there pandemonium broke loose.  Clara, the calmest of John’s family, was at the wheel of the car while John and Mary were in the backseat panicking.  “John, Mary, I need you to stay calm for me, will you?  We’ll be there soon, I promise.”  It didn’t take a psychic to figure out that the almost new parents were barely hanging on.  Clara was able to safely get them to the hospital, where they settled in to await the arrival of the newest Watson.  Later, when Clara related the story to John, he looked at her blankly.  “Don’t worry, Dad.   Forgetfulness is part of being a parent.”    
  
After almost 23 straight hours of labor, almost crushed hands, and the frantic pacing of family and friends outside, John and Mary welcome into the world their baby daughter, Fiona Katherine Morstan-Watson.  From that day on, John plastered his personal belongings with pictures of Mary and Fiona.  He sent letters, pictures and bits of interesting things to his wife and daughter while also recording his thoughts in journals that he sent to Mary.  He poured over every little tidbit that Mary sent him and cooed over the baby when they were lucky enough to get a Skype connection.    
  
“Da-da!”  Fiona said nearly six months later while reaching her arms out to John.  The video was grainy at best but to John Watson this was the best thing he had ever seen.    
  
“I love you, my darling little Fee,” he said, tears streaming down his eyes.    
  
“Da-da!”  Fiona said bubbling with happiness.  Mary beamed at the both of them, feeling lucky to have such a man at her side, even if he was currently many miles away.  
  
***  
  
 _August, 2009_  
  
“John,” a voice to his left said.    
  
John looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight. “What is it, Murray?  I have to get him stabilized before I can talk to you.”  
  
“Let David take over.  I need to talk to you,” Murray said.  John frowned at his friend but did as he was asked, letting the other medic in.  He walked after Murray and noticed that he was out of earshot from the rest of the camp.  
  
“What is it Murray?”  John said, feeling the icy knot of fear clenched in his stomach.   _Is it Harry?  Did her drinking finally get her?  Is it Mum?  Clara?  Oh, god.  Not Mary.  Not Fiona.  Oh, my god.  Please not Mary or Fiona._  
  
“There was an accident, John.  Mary was walking with Fiona and your Mum to the park when a car lost control and hit Mary.  Fiona’s fine, shaken but fine.  I’m so, so sorry, John but it was instantaneous.” Murray said not able to meet John’s eyes anymore.  “Mary’s gone.”  
  
 _Mary’s gone.  Mary’s gone.  Mary’s gone.  Mary’s gone.  Mary’s gone.  Mary’s gone.  Mary’s gone.  Oh, my god.  What am I going to do?  Fiona!  Oh, my lovely little Fiona.  What are we going to do?_  
  
John took several moments to compose himself before meeting Murray’s eyes and requesting some time and a computer to Skype to London and his little Fiona.  
  
“Daddy,” Fiona said sleepily as his mother held his precious baby in her arms.  John gave her a cursory glance before focusing his attention on Fiona.    
  
“Hi, Lovely Little Fee,” John said gently.  “How are you?”  
  
“I want Mama,” Fiona said grumpily and rubbed her eyes.    
  
“I know, Baby,  I know.  I want Mama too.  But...but Mama’s not coming back,” John said, wishing he  could be there to hold her.  He could hear the sobs filling her chest, making his heart break ever more.  John held his tears in check, trying to be strong for his daughter.    
  
“Mama was taken away by that bad man in the car,” she said, her eyes beginning to fill with tears.  
  
“Yes, she was.”  John was feeling even more guilty about the whole situation.   _I should have never come to Afghanistan._  
  
“I want you here, Daddy,” Fiona said, sniffling.  
  
“I want to be there too, Fee.  I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” she said.  
  
“You’re my brave, brave girl.  And I love you very, very much,” John said, feeling his heart break.  
  
“I love you too, Daddy,” Fiona said.  
  
***  
  
“Watson!  We need you over here!  Murray’s been injured!”  The consistent sounds of gunfire, explosions, and men screaming made hearing difficult, causing John to flinch at almost everything going on around him.  He shook his head roughly trying to focus on tending to a wounded soldier when more gunfire broke out just a few blocks away.   _That sounded closer,_ John thought.   _I need to move faster._  
  
“I need someone to take this man back to the unit!”  John screamed as a corporal ran towards him to help the wounded man back to a safer position.  John was sweating underneath his layers of uniform and what wasn’t covered in cloth was covered in layers of sweat, grit, and sand.  He pushed his goggles up to wipe the sweat from his eyebrows.    
  
“Watson!  Get the fuck over here!”  The gunfire was getting closer, he needed to move before something happened to him.  John put his goggles back on and started running towards the sound of the voice.  Behind him, bullets whizzed past him kicking up more dirt and grime into the air.   _Where the fuck is everyone?  This isn’t normal.  There are usually civilians in a town of this size.  This is wrong!  Something is wrong!_  
  
Finding the source of the voice, another medic was tending to Murray as John arrived.  The sound of the fighting was getting closer but between the two of them, they were able to patch-up Murray well enough to transport him to a better facility.  As they watched Murray’s ambulance rush away, the sudden silence that descended around them raised John’s hackles.  The loud explosion to their right burst through the wall and knocked them backwards.    
  
“Get out of here!  Get the fuck out of here!”  John shouted before turning to make sure the other medic was okay.  That was when the sniper took aim for John, who fell to his knees hard as the bullet pierced his shoulder.  John felt  time slow down as the rest of his body his the ground, barely feeling it, as another bullet whizzed past his ear and into the wall behind him.  He blinked slowly, feeling the blood gush from his wound and pool around him.  John’s breathing was shallow as he stared sideways at what was happening around him.  Sound was muffled to a dull roar, words were stretched and distorted, causing John to flinch again.  He felt heavy, heavier than he ever thought possible.  The sand was everywhere on him, irritating the skin and rubbing him raw.  He felt hands on him as the person tried to assess how much damage had been done to him.  A black curtain slowly fell in front of his eyes and the last thing John thought before blacking out was of Fiona and Mary.   _I’m so sorry, my love.  I failed you.  I should have never have come here._


	2. Chapter Two

_London, January, 2010_  
  
The nightmares haunted John, first Mary’s death and then Afghanistan.  There was just no escaping them, no warning as to when he would be having these dreams.  Sometimes he was able to stop himself from screaming out and waking Fiona, other times he could not.    
  
The first time it happened, Fiona edged far away from John when he came into the room to check on her.  John was a mess - hair sweaty and plastered all over his head; his clothing sticking to him; his eyes red-rimmed.  One look at his daughter and John almost lost it all over again.  
  
“Oh, Fiona, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to wake you, let alone scare you,” John said, his voice thick with emotion and guilt.  Fiona looked at her father and nodded solemnly before crawling out of the corner and into his lap, curling up like a cat before drifting back to sleep.  
  
John bit his lip as he watched his daughter, his only link to Mary, sleep.  
  
***  
  
“Thank you, Mum,” John said wearily as he stooped to kiss Fiona.  He hadn’t had his weekly therapy session and already, John was tired.    
  
“You’re welcome, Johnny,” his mum said.  “I really wish you’d consider living with me.  You need someone to help you raise Fiona.  At least think about moving in with Harry.”  
  
“Mum, do you really want to me to expose your only grandchild to Harry’s drinking?”  John said sternly and fixing her with a hard stare.    
  
His mum sighed before replying, “no, you’re right.  I don’t.  But you could be so helpful for her.”  
  
“Mum, she barely wants to be helpful towards herself.  What I need is a partner, not another charge to look after.  Look, Mum, I have to go.  I’ll see you this afternoon, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah, all right Johnny,” she said sadly.  
  
“Fee!  Be good for me will you?”  John said sweeping his daughter up into a fierce hug.  
  
“Okay, Daddy,” Fiona said laying her hand against his face.  “Be good, Daddy.”  
  
John laughed.  “Always, Love.  Always,” he said kissing her.  
  
***  
  
“How’s your blog?” Ella asked as she looked at John with a mixture of sympathy and a bit of impatience.  John had been seeing this therapist since he arrived back in London from being wounded.    
  
 _Oh, my girl.  To have so much tragedy and all before the age of six.  What are we going to do?_  
“What?  Yes, it’s fine.  It’s good.  Good,” John said as he was rubbed his leg absently.  
  
“You haven’t written a word, have you?” Ella said, trying to keep her sigh quiet as she scribbled something in her notes.  
  
“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues,” John said,not bothering to hide that he had read what she just wrote.  
  
“And you read my writing upside down.  You see what I mean?  John, you’re a soldier and now a single parent.  It’s going to take you awhile to adjust to civilian life and fatherhood.  You have to be there for Fiona.  You have to.  And writing a blog about everything that happens to you and Fiona will honestly help you.”  
  
 _Bless her.  She’s trying her best to help me.  I might be beyond help however..._ “Nothing happens to me,” John said and smiled tightly.  
  
***  
  
After the therapy session John decided to take a walk; anything to help him clear his head.  Since coming back to London, his mother was generous enough to let them stay with her for as long as they wanted.  As kind as this was, John still felt penned in.  He worked hard to leave his parents house only to wind up back there again.   _It’s frugal.  It’ll help save money and Mum will be there to help with Fiona._ Despite this short pep talk, John had no desire to continue living there, relying on his mother.  
  
Everything, though, just felt wrong, out of place, disjointed.  He missed Mary deeply, feeling lost and adrift in a city he used to love dearly.  John continued to walk, debating whether to keep walking around the park or to go back to go back to his Mum’s house and cuddle his daughter.  John was avoiding his responsibilities either way, but the thought of trying to right his sinking ship only crushed him further.  
  
The pension he received from the Army wasn’t anywhere near helpful to make ends meet for he and Fiona.  He didn’t want to rely on Harry either and run the risk of exposing his daughter to her heavy drinking.    
  
While Harry had promised to curb it, John was not so sure that she could actually pull it off since Clara left her six months back.   _She’s such a saint.  I can’t believe she remained married to Harry for nearly four years._ John had briefly toyed with asking Clara if they could stay with her but decided against it for sister’s sanity.  He was not willing to live with his sister but wasn’t going to add to her misery by living with her ex-wife.    
  
John was close to finishing his walk around the park when he heard a vaguely familiar voice call out to him.  
  
“John!  John Watson!  It’s me, Mike Stamford!” he said laughing affably, eyes crinkling in genuine pleasure at seeing his old friend.  “I got fat,” he added, sensing John’s confusion.    
  
“Ah, yes, hello.  How are you?”  John said, trying not to betray his annoyance at being interrupted with his thoughts.  
  
“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at.  What happened?”  Mike winced internally when he said the words.  The pain was all over John Watson’s face.  
  
“I got shot,” John said, smiling that tight smile again.    
  
“Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee,” Mike said, trying to ignore the false smile.  “I’m not taking no for an answer and it’s my treat.”  John nodded as Mike led him to a coffee shop, talking the entire way.  As they sat down at a bench, Mike couldn’t help but notice the slight tremor in John’s hand but chose to say nothing about it.    
  
“Are you still at Bart’s then?”  John said, discreetly switching hands to hold his cup.  
  
“Teaching now, yeah,”  Mike said, rolling his eyes.  “Bright young things like we used to be.  God I hate them,” he said and laughed, pleased to see that John laughed with him.  “What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?”  
  
“We can’t afford London on an army pension,” John said, feeling the anger coil inside.  
  
“We?” Mike asked in surprise.  
  
“Oh, right.  You weren’t...” John said and stopped, gathering himself before continuing.  “While I was in the Army I got married and we had a little girl before...” John stopped again, swallowing the lump that was in his throat.  “Ah, before Mary died,” John said, turning away from Mike.  
  
“Oh, John.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t know,” Mike said quietly, not knowing what to say or do.    
  
“It’s okay,”John finally said,trying to think of something to say.  
  
“No, it’s not,” Mike replied vehemently.  “You’ve lost your wife, you have a daughter to care for, you’ve been shot. All of this _is not okay,”_ he said, building up a head of steam.    
  
John gave him a crooked smile, perhaps the first real smile since returning home to England.  “Thank you.”  
  
Mike nodded.  “You’re welcome.”  After a few quiet moments, Mike asked, “couldn’t Harry help?”  
  
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” John snorted, taking a sip of his cooling coffee.  
  
“I don’t know.  You could get a flatshare or something,” Mike said, going through lists of people in his head.  
  
“C’mon.  Who’d want me for a flatmate?  I have a five-year daughter,” John said, laughing a bit.  He looked at Mike who was giving him a strange look.  “What?”  
  
“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”  
  
“Who’s the first?”  
  
Mike smiled a little more.  
  
 _Famous last words,_ John thought to himself as he walked with his friend to St. Bart’s.   _This bloke’s got to be something interesting if he can’t get a flatshare._ They walked through the halls, chatting amiably about “the old days.”   _But really, if nothing comes out of this, then at least I’ve reconnected with Mike Stamford.  That might be a step in the right direction.  He might be able to suggest a job for me here in St. Bart’s._  
  
***  
  
Mike knocked politely as they stepped into a dim lab, John looked around, feeling a bit of nostalgia washing over him.  Mike closed the door behind them and waited off the to side to watch the exchange between his friend and the odd, but brilliant man named Sherlock Holmes.    
  
“A bit different from my days,” John said out loud, not paying attention to the dark haired, pale skinned man at the other end of the room.    
  
“You have no idea,” Mike said, keeping the smile that threatened to blossom under check.  
  
“Mike, can I borrow your phone?  There’s no signal on mine,” asked the stranger.  John cocked his head to the side; if he wasn’t mistaken that more of a command than a polite request.    
  
“Well, what’s wrong with the land line?”  Mike said, wavering between amusement and annoyance.    
  
“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said without looking up.    
  
John idly watched the back and forth between the two men wondering if this man was the one Mike referred to earlier in the day.  He hoped not.  
  
“It’s in my other coat,” Mike said, patting his pockets down.    
  
John did not know what possessed him when he said, “Oh, here.  Use mine.”  He dug out his mobile from his pocket and held it out to the stranger, with a small smile on his face.  
  
“Oh.  Thank you,” he said.  John noted that he looked a little surprised but that expression was quickly covered up.    
  
“Old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said turning to John.  
  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the stranger said, paying more attention to the mobile than to John.  John did a double-take giving Mike a look.  Mike, not keeping the smile off his face, just continued to watch the interaction.    
  
“I’m sorry?” John said, attempting to be polite but failing.    
  
“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said again, barely concealing the eye roll.  
  
John, confused, looked back to Mike who now looked quite pleased with himself.    
  
“Afghanistan.  I’m sorry - “ John was interrupted by the entrance of a pretty young woman carrying a coffee.  
  
“Molly! Coffee, thank you,” he said and he handed John’s phone back to him, barely looking at Molly.  The stranger had completely blown off John’s next question.    
  
“Did you wipe off your lipstick?”  he asked her.  
  
“It wasn’t working for me,” she said a little sadly.  
  
John, still puzzled at the man’s question, tucked the phone back in his pocket.  
  
“Really?  I thought it was an improvement.  Your mouth’s too small now,” he said and turned around.  John missed the look the stranger gave him.    
  
“Okay,” Molly said breathlessly before turning to leave the lab.  She waved at Mike before leaving and didn’t seem to pay John any attention. _Poor thing,_ John thought, _she might have better luck with someone else._  
  
John was about to berate the stranger for his behavior towards Molly - who was clearly besotted with him, anyone with eyes could see that - when he said, “How do you feel about the violin?”  
  
“Sorry, what?”  John’s temper was going to get the best of him soon, if he didn’t get the satisfactory answers he wanted.  Or at least some acknowledgment that he had asked questions, John wasn’t picky, just annoyed.      
  
“I play the violin when I’m thinking.  Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.  Would that bother you?  Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” he said.   _Arrogant git thinks we’re just going to move in with him._  
  
“You told him about me?”  John asking, giving Mike an annoyed look.    
  
“Not a word,” said Mike while examining a sample pretending not to watch.   _More like trying to watch the both of us without us noticing,_ John thought wryly.    
  
“Who said anything about flatmates?” John asked, his annoyance clear.  
  
“I did.  I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.  Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan.  A logical leap,“ the other man said confidently.    
  
“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John said trying to keep his voice light as he rubbed the sticker-laden head of his cane absently.    
  
He automatically thought of the memory that suddenly sprung to his mind.  “I want you to know that I love you when we’re not together,” Fiona said, presenting his cane to John not too long after he came back from rehab.  John blinked back tears before accepting it.  
  
“Thank you, my Love,” he said and hugged her.  
  
“You’re welcome, Daddy.”  John shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts and refocused on the man in front of him.  
  
“I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in Central London.  Together we ought to be able to afford it.  We can meet there tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.  Sorry, got to dash.  I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary,” the other man said.    
  
John looked to Mike for confirmation of what he had just heard.   _What?_ Mike just shrugged.  
  
“Is that it?”  John finally asked.  
  
“Is that what?” he asked as he was putting on his coat.  
  
“We’ve only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat?” John said wanting to strangle the man with his own scarf.  
  
“Problem?”  No, check that.  John _was going_ to strangle him with his scarf.  
  
“We don’t know a thing about each other.  I don’t know where we’re meeting.  I don’t even know your name,” John said, feeling his tension rise.  John wished more and more that he hadn’t let Mike talk him into meeting this madman.  What was he doing bringing Fiona into this mess?  
  
While John had this internal debate, he missed the stranger straightening his posture before launching into, “I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan.  I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you - “ John felt like one of the specimens, laid out to examine - “but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him - possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.  And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic - “ John glanced down at the cane in his hand, confused - “quite correctly, I’m afraid.  That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”  The stranger had said this all in one breath, completely disorienting John and staring at him with those strange not quite blue, not quite green eyes.  He ducked his head back in and added, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.  Afternoon,” he said winking.  
  
John’s head swiveled to Mike, who waved at the man leaving.  Mike just shrugged with a half smile on his face when he met John’s eyes.  “Yeah, he’s always like that.”  
  
“You _work_ with him?” John asked incredulous.    
  
“Oh, no.  No one works with him.  He doesn’t even work _here,_ ” Mike said cheerfully.  “Well?  What do you think of him?”  
  
“What do I think?   _What do I think?_  I think he’s mad and you’re just as mad!  Do you honestly think he’ll even get along with me, let alone my five-year-old daughter?”  John said once again, building up steam.  
  
“Well, you merely know _his_ name and how he acts - which is all for show, mind you.  And all he knows about you he observed.  Besides, he got that fact about Harry wrong, didn’t he?”  Mike said still obnoxiously cheerful.  
  
“What are you so happy about?”  John bit out.  
  
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re not intrigued!  You are!  I know you are!”  Mike said, now grinning broadly.  
  
“Damn you,” John said defeated.  
  
Mike laughed and clapped him on the back.  “Come on, I’ll give you a proper introduction to Molly Hooper.”  
  
***  
  
 _This is mad.  Completely and utterly mad.  I can’t honestly be thinking about looking at a flatshare with someone I barely know!  Oh, my god.  What if he’s a serial killer?  I need to do some research on him before I do anything, anything at all!_  John continued this internal debate all the way back to his mother’s house.  
  
John was still debating with himself when he thought to pull out his mobile to check his messages.    
  
                If brother has green ladder arrest brother.  
                SH  
  
 _Well, that’s not ominous.  Not ominous at all._  
  
“Daddy!”  Fiona cried when she saw him walking up the sidewalk.  
  
“Fiona, my Love,” John cried, dropping to his knees to hug her.    
  
“Daddy,” Fiona said pulling away slightly, her face serious “stop doing that.”   
  
“Stop doing what, Fee?” John asked puzzled.  
  
“Stop making that face,” Fiona said, crossing her arms.  
  
John’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.  “What face?”  
  
“That face!” Fiona said.  “Grandmother said that if you make a face for very long, it will get stuck like that!”  Fiona cried out.  “And I don’t want your face all wrinkly!”  
  
John laughed.  “Okay, my Love.  I won’t make the wrinkly face anymore.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
“Promise,” John said, wincing slightly as he stood up.  
  
“Daddy,” Fiona said warningly.  
  
“What?  My leg hurts!” John cried out, amused.  
  
Fiona made a face before dragging John inside.   _That was the same face Mary used to make.  Oh, god, Mary.  I miss you so much._ The rest of John’s day was spent with his daughter while his mother fussed over the both of them.    
  
Later on, when he finished tucking Fiona into bed, John decided to look up this Sherlock Holmes.   _Interesting._ It was rather late when John finished up his research, he rubbed his head and sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking.   _Very, very interesting.  Damn you, Mike Stamford.  Never could resist a challenge, could you?_  
  
***  
  
“Right Mum, I have to go and see about this flat,” John said, grabbing his coat and cane.    
  
“Daddy, can I come with you?”  Fiona asked, practically attaching herself to her father’s good leg.    
  
“Oh, Fiona, I’d love to, but it will be your bedtime soon and you must sleep.  You are a growing girl after all,” John said, ruffling her fair hair.  Fiona pouted a little and then brought very realistic tears to her eyes.  “Oh, no you don’t, Fiona Katherine Morstan-Watson,” John said sternly.  “You don’t get to pull that on your old Dad.  It never worked on your Mum and it certainly won’t work with me.”  Fiona just  looked at him, her bright blue eyes piercing through his very soul.  “Fiona?”  
  
“Daddy,” she said softly, real tears in her eyes this time.  
  
“Oh, Fiona.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so very sorry, my darling girl,” John said and pulled her up.  “I’m not the best dad for you, am I?”  
  
“Daddy!  Don’t say that!  You’re my dad and that makes you the best dad ever!  Mommy said so.  Mommy said it all the time,” Fiona said, burying her face in John’s neck.    
  
“Did she?”  John asked choking back a sob.  
  
“Yes, she did.  She said that she believed in you with all her heart,” Fiona mumbled.    
  
“Thank you, Fiona.  Thank you,” John said.  
  
***  
  
John would’ve gladly taken a cab to Baker Street, but his finances wouldn’t allow it.  So, he walked - _damn limp_ \- to Baker Street.  He looked around a minute for the mysterious Sherlock Holmes before knocking on the door.    
  
“Hello,” a deep voice said behind him.  
  
“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John said politely, leaning on his cane.  
  
“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock said, shaking John’s outstretched hand.  
  
“Well, this is a prime spot.  Must be expensive,” John said, looking around.    
  
“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady gave me a special deal, owes me a favor,” Sherlock said simply.  “A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida.”  
  
“You stopped her husband from being executed,” John said.  
  
“Oh, no.  I insured it,” Sherlock said.  The door opened then with a pleasant looking lady reaching out her arms towards Sherlock, who went forward to hug her.  
  
“Sherlock!”  Mrs Hudson said affectionately.   
  
“Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock said introducing them.  John followed Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson up the stairs and into the flat.  Sherlock waited for him at the top of the stairs before opening the door with a flourish.    
  
John couldn’t have been happier with the flat.  It already felt like home to him.   _I hope Fiona likes it.  I hope there are three bedrooms here.  Oh, I should clean this up and move this garbage out before moving in._  
  
“It’s very nice indeed.  Very nice after we get it cleaned out,” John said just as Sherlock was saying, “I thought so.  I took the liberty of moving in.”  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said and went to move a pillow as John took in Sherlock’s words.   _Oh, christ._  
  
“So, this is your stuff then?”    
  
“Obviously, I can straighten things out,” Sherlock said a bit nervously as he stabbed his mail to the fireplace mantel.  
  
“That’s a skull,” John said, pointing at it with his cane.    
  
“Friend of mine,” Sherlock said, turning towards the skull and then back towards John.    
  
“What do you think then, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said coming in.  “There’s another two bedrooms upstairs, if you’ll be needing it.”  
  
“Of course, I’ll be needing two bedrooms.  I’ll need one and my daughter will need one,” John said, straightening up.  He had forgotten to tell Sherlock that he had a five-year-old daughter and now, he felt compelled to defend her - if needed - to both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.    
  
“Daughter?” Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling.  
  
“Yes, she’s five.  My wife, her mother, died while I was in Afghanistan,” John said, straightening his spine even more looking for signs in the other man.    
  
“Oh, the poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, sniffling a little.  “The two of you must miss her sorely.”  
  
“We do indeed, Mrs. Hudson.  We miss her everyday.  An army pension isn’t enough for just one person, let alone a single father,” John said, softening a little.    
  
Sherlock blinked.  “Damn, I always miss something,” he muttered.  
  
“What?” John said, turning his attention to Sherlock.  This was not quite the reaction he was expecting.  
  
“Oh, I always miss something,” Sherlock said again.  “Daughter, how did I miss that?”    
  
“Probably because I was leaning on my cane,” John said and showed him the bestarred handle.  “She wanted to make sure that I thought of her every time I took a step.”  
  
“Oh, that’s so sweet!”  Mrs. Hudson said, this time dabbing her eyes in addition to the sniffling.  
  
“Sentiment,” Sherlock said derisively.    
  
“Excuse me?” John said, suddenly tensing.  This seemed more like the reaction he was expecting from this man.    
  
“Sentiment will always get a person in trouble,” Sherlock said and turned around, running a hand through his hair.  “Oh, this will never work,” he said darkly.  
  
“What?  Just because I have a five-year-old?  You’ve never even met Fiona!” John said indignantly.  
  
“I don’t need to, if she’s like you,” Sherlock shot back.  
  
“Excuse me?”  John said retorted, his eyes narrowing dangerously.  His hand clutched his cane, turning his knuckles white.  
  
“If your daughter is anything like you, then she will have a multitude of deficiencies starting with not having a mother,” Sherlock said.  “How did she die?  Cancer?  Caught neglecting your child while you were away?”    
  
“DON’T YOU DARE INSULT MARY LIKE THAT!”  John roared, snapping.    
  
Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson stopped in their tracks.    
  
“Why in the world would I ever want to bring my five-year-old into contact with you is beyond me.  You are nothing but a selfish, mad, egotist who has obviously nothing better to do than to insult people _he has never met._ ” John said sharply and turned away from Sherlock.  “Mrs. Hudson, my deepest and sincerest  apologies to you, but I will not be taking the flat.  I simply refuse to live in the same space as anyone who would dare insult someone dead and unable to defend themselves, let alone a five-year-old,” John said stiffly and began walking back down the stairs and into the evening.  “Good evening.”  
  
On the way down, John bumped into a harried man who barreled his way into 221B.  “Excuse me,” he said.    
  
“Sorry,” John muttered as he reached the front door.  He stepped outside only to be greeted by a parked police car with the lights on.   _Interesting, but not my problem anymore._  
  
As he started the walk back to his mother’s flat, John could feel eyes burning a hole through him as Sherlock cried out his name.  John managed to continue walking without turning around.  
  
***  
  
Later that night, John had nightmares again.  The swirling mass  that was Afghanistan fought for space in John’s head with imagined scenes of Mary’s death.    
  
 _“John...John...John...”  He could practically hear Mary’s voice in this dream, feel her fingers running through his hair, feel the warmth of her body against his.  “My Love, so strong.  So angry.  It’s not your fault.  It was never your fault.  You must forgive yourself.”_  
  
 _“I can’t Mary.  I can’t.  We wouldn’t be in this situation if I hadn’t gone off to Afghanistan.  You’d still be here with Fiona and I and we’d be happy.”_  
  
 _“Oh, Love.  I know this is a difficult time for you, but please know that things will get better.  They always do.”_  
  
 _“I don’t know if I can do this without you.”_  
  
 _“You can, Sweetheart.  I know you can.  Trust yourself.  Trust Sherlock.”_  
  
 _“Trust...Sherlock?”_  
  
 _…_  
  
 _“Mary?”_  
  
“Mary!”  John woke with a gasp and just remembered to muffle his shout with his hand.  John listened hard trying to determine if he had woken anyone else in the house.  Certain that he had not, John flopped back down on his sweat-soaked bed trying to keep the tears and confusion at bay. He almost screamed again when Fiona’s hand found his.  
  
“Fiona,” John breathed out.  “What are you doing up?”  
  
“I heard you yelling, Daddy,” Fiona said and nudged her way up into John’s bed.    
  
“Oh, Darling, I’m a mess,” John said, making to sit up and take her back to bed.  
  
“No, Daddy, you need your rest,” Fiona said in her best I-know-better-than-you voice.  
  
John chuckled, shifting until the both of them were cuddling comfortably.  Soon, Fiona was snoring softly on John’s chest while he listened to her breathe.    
  
 _Trust Sherlock?  Not bloody likely._


	3. Chapter Three

John was reading the paper two days later, looking for jobs, when the name Sherlock Holmes caught his eye.  He refrained from making any nasty remarks about his almost potential flatmate and read the article, feeling his eyes grow increasingly in size as he did. The recent rash of suicides were actually murders committed by a cab driver, and the idiot was going to take one of those damn pills!    
  
Ten minutes later, he was on the phone with Mike Stamford.  
  
“Mike!  What the bloody hell were you thinking trying to set Sherlock Holmes and I up as flatmates!” John said, practically screeching into the phone.  
  
Mike only chuckled.  “Ah, well.  He grows on you, you know.”    
  
“Well, he’s not getting anywhere near us, I can tell you that!”  
  
“Oh, don’t be so quick to judge, John,” Mike said lightly.  “He really is brilliant, even if he is a bit of a nutter.  And he genuinely likes you.”  
  
“He...what?”  
  
“He likes you,” Mike said again.  “Look, I can only imagine what he said to you when the two of you looked at the flat but, really, give him another chance.  You don’t really know him John, but then again, I don’t know him either.  I don’t think anyone really does.”  
  
John sighed.  
  
***  
  
John was looking at his reflection, adjusting his tie when his phone chimed with a message.  Making sure everything looked neat and presentable, he reached for his phone while he examined his clothes further.  
  
                I would like to apologize to you, in person - SH  
  
John frowned at the screen.   _Don’t remember giving that prat my mobile._  
  
                Today if possible. - SH  
                You may bring your daughter - SH  
  
 _Damn, he did use my mobile to text someone, didn’t he?_

Just because you used my mobile to text someone doesn’t give you the right to text me. - JW

 

Perhaps then, you shouldn’t have loaned me your phone. - SH

  
 _I shouldn’t keep replying._  
  
                That was before I knew you were a monstrous prat. - JW  
  
                Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. - SH  
  
                Not sarcasm.  Stating facts.  - JW  
  
John decided put his mobile down and finished dressing.  It chimed twice more before he decided to look at the messages.  
  
                You haven’t answered my original question.  - SH  
                I shall take your silence as a consent to meet. - SH  
  
 _Damn!_  
  
                Fine.  We will meet again, just not today.  I have an important appointment today.  - JW  
  
                You know she’ll hire you. - SH  
  
 _How..._  
  
                I not only see, but observe. - SH  
  
 _Damn, the man._  
                  
                It is still polite to attend one’s job interview, even if you think she will hire me.  - JW  
                By the way, how did you know the interview is with a woman? - JW  
  
                I have my sources. - SH  
  
                Stop being creepy.  - JW  
  
                Fine.  - SH  
                But she will hire you.  You’re relatively attractive with outstanding credentials. - SH  
  
 _Wait, did he just come on to me?_

And while I said you you were relatively attractive, please be advised that I am married to my

work. - SH

  
John greatly resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  
  
                It’s fine, you know.  It’s all fine.  Plus, I have no real time for relationships anyway, not with a

five-year-old. - JW

  
                That’s good. - SH  
  
                What?  That I have no time for relationships or it’s good that I think it’s all fine. - JW  
  
                Yes. - SH  
  
Now John did roll his eyes.    
  
                We’ll meet at Angelo’s near Baker Street at 6 pm. - SH  
  
                Fine.  - JW  
  
John didn’t want to think about why he was agreeing to meet this madman with his daughter.  He had other things to think about currently.  
  
***  
  
“Dr. Watson?” a voice piped up from the other side of the room.  John looked up and saw that the head physician was looking at him.  
  
“Ah, yes, that’s me,” John said standing up and going to shake her outstretched hand.  He smiled at her.   _Ah, yes.  Not bad looking at all.  Oh, stop that John.  Stop that right this instant._  
  
“Sarah Sawyer, this is my practice.  Welcome,” Sarah said and turned.  “Follow me,” she said and looked at him over her shoulder.  She smiled at him again.   _This is a job, not a pub._ John smiled again at her as they sat down in her office with Sarah flipping through his CV.  
  
“You know, it’s just locum work,” Sarah said, looking up and blinking at him.  
  
“No, that’s fine,” John said trying not to fiddle with his tie.  
  
“You’re a bit - well, overqualified,” she said, a little sadly.  
  
“We could always do with the money,” he said.  
  
“We?”  John thought he noticed a bit of disappointment in her face.  
  
“Oh, my daughter and I.  An army pension isn’t enough for a single dad,” John said.  He pulled his wallet out and showed her a picture of Fiona.  “Fiona.  My little pride and joy.”  
  
“She’s beautiful,” she said looking at the picture.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Well, we’ve got two off on holiday this week and another one just left to have a baby.  It might be a little bit...mundane for you,” she said, straightening John’s CV as he smiled.  
  
“Mundane is good, sometimes. Mundane works,” he said.  
  
“Says here that you’re a soldier.”  
  
“And a Doctor,” he said.  “The medicine always came first.”  
  
“Anything else you can do?”  
  
“I learned the clarinet in school,” John said without missing a beat, noticing the flirty look in her eye.  
  
“I look forward to it,” Sarah said.  “Can you start Wednesday?”  
  
“Yes,” John said, barely containing his glee.  
  
“Well then, welcome aboard,” Sarah said and extended her hand again.  
  
Afterwards, John could have done a dance.  Instead, he opted to bring Fiona a treat from the local bakery.  He glanced at his watch.   _Ah, three hours until dinner._  
  
“Hi Mum!  Hi Fiona!  I’m home!” John cried out.    
  
“Hi Johnny,” Harry said from the kitchen.  She reeked of alcohol and looked around blinking.  
  
“Hi Harry,” John said, wincing.  “Jesus, Harry, what time did you start drinking?  More importantly, why are you drinking around Fiona?”  
  
“Fiona’s here?” Harry slurred, still looking around.  “I thought she was with you.”  
  
“I left her with Mum,” John said.  Harry’s head started swiveling from side to side as her eyes grew bigger.  
  
“Harriet, where is my daughter,” John said bristling.  “Where is Mum?”  
  
“Mum left to go grocery shopping.  She asked me to...” a dawning horror crossed her face.  
  
“She asked you to do what?  To look after your niece because I was at a job interview?”  John’s voice dropped dangerously low.  
  
Harry’s eyes were ready to pop out of her head as she nodded.    
  
“Right.  Call Mum.  I’m going to find my daughter,” John said and turned around swiftly.  He wrenched open the front door as Sherlock Holmes was set to knock.  Behind him was Fiona, yawning and clutching her favorite doll.  
  
“Hello, John,” Sherlock said.  “I believe she belongs to you,” he said and gently pushed Fiona towards her father.  
  
“Fiona,” John said, crumbling and pulling his daughter close.  “What happened?”  
  
“I got scared,” Fiona said, trying to bury herself into John’s shoulder.  
  
“Why?”  John asked, smoothing her hair.  
  
“Nan was gone and Auntie Harry passed out,” Fiona mumbled.  
  
John refrained from shooting a glare at his sister.  He heard her sob as the bottle she was holding dropped to the floor, spilling the contents.  
  
“Sweetpea, you know better than to leave the house by yourself,” John said gently.  
  
Fiona nodded and then added, “I was scared for Auntie Harry.  I thought she needed help.”  
  
John sighed and rubbed her back soothing.   _This is not the life I imagined for her.  I’m going to seriously fuck this up.  What am I doing?_  
  
“I found her two blocks away,” Sherlock said, breaking into his thoughts.  
  
John looked up at Sherlock, trying to scrutinize his face.  Sherlock remained still as he let John look him over.  “Thank you,” John said, finally standing with his daughter.    To his sister, he said, “Get up and clean the alcohol off the floor before Mum comes home.”  Harry nodded and left to get a clean rag.   _Oh, god.  I need to convince her to get help. **I**_ need help.    
  
“Shall we talk outside?” Sherlock said and nodded to the bench on the porch.  
  
John nodded and took Fiona with him outside, unwilling to let her go for the moment.  Fiona was still trying to bury herself in John’s shoulder as she clutched her doll tighter.  
  
“Thank you for bringing her back to me,” John said, looking out over the street.  “How did you know where we lived?”  
  
“I asked her,” Sherlock said, looking at John.  “She shouldn’t give out her address to strangers in the street.”  
  
Fiona shook her head.  “I don’t,” she said simply and looked at Sherlock.  John and Sherlock looked at each other, confused.  “You wouldn’t hurt me,” Fiona went on.    
  
“How did you know that, Love?”  John said.    
  
Fiona just shrugged and went back to trying to bury herself in John’s shoulder.  John just sighed.  
  
“I wanted to...apologize for what I said the other day.  That was...uncalled for,” Sherlock said stiffly and looked everywhere except at the man sitting beside him.  
  
John chuckled.  “That was hard for you to admit, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “And if you repeat that to anyone else, I will ask my brother to make you disappear,” he said.  Fiona looked up sharply and glared at Sherlock.    
  
“He’s only kidding, Love,” John said, smiling.  Once her head went back down, he shot Sherlock a glare to which Sherlock studiously ignored.    
  
“You were going to going to take that pill weren’t you,” John said knowing full well what Sherlock’s answer was going to be.  
  
“Of course I wasn’t.  I was biding my time.  I knew Lestrade would turn up,”  Sherlock said disdainfully.  
  
John shook his head and tutted at him.  “No you didn’t.  That’s how you get your kicks in isn’t it?  You risk  your life to prove you’re clever.”  
  
Sherlock ignored the last statement.  “Why would I get my kicks through risking my life?”  
  
“Because you’re an idiot,” John replied.  
  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, the side of his mouth tipping up in a half-smile.  “Hungry?”  
  
“Yes!”  Fiona piped up before John could answer, looking at Sherlock.  Sherlock was taken aback, somehow he had forgotten that the child was there.  He peered closely at her as if she were an interesting alien.  
  
“Fiona,” John said with a bit of disapproval.  
  
“Yes, please,” Fiona amended, still staring at Sherlock.    
  
Sherlock nodded at her.  “You can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle,” he said.  
  
“You’re absolutely mad,” John said and sighed.  “But you said something about Italian?”  
  
“Ah, yes.  Angelo’s, right,” Sherlock said and stood up.  
  
“Let me sort out my sister and I’ll be right with you,” John said.  
  
“Daddy, I want to come too!  Plus, I’m really hungry!” Fiona said.  
  
John sighed.  “Fine.  Go brush your hair, grab a proper pair of shoes and your coat.  We’ll leave in a few minutes.”  Fiona nodded.  John watched her race up the steps before he went to seek out his sister.    
  
***  
  
The three of them entered Angelo’s, and John watched as Sherlock went straight towards a table near the front windows that afforded him a perfect view of the street.  As the waiter set the menus down, a large and burly man approached them.  “Sherlock,” he said, shaking his head.  “Anything on the menu, anything you want, free, on the house for you, your date and your date’s daughter.”  Fiona smiled up at him.  “This man got me off murder charges.”  
  
“I’m not his date,” John said, confused.    
  
“This is Angelo,” Sherlock said, ignoring John’s statement.  “Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious murder that Angelo was across town breaking and entering.”    
  
“He cleared my name,” Angelo said, smiling broadly.  
  
“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock said.   
  
“If not for this man, I would  have gone to prison,” Angelo said, talking over Sherlock.  
  
“You did go to prison,” Sherlock replied.   
  
“I’ll get a candle.  Make it more romantic,” Angelo said.  
  
“I’m not his date,” John cried out.  He sighed.  “Well, love, what do you want?”  
  
“Spaghetti and meatballs!” she said gleefully.    
  
“Order anything you want,” Sherlock said.  “Angelo isn’t kidding when he said that everything is on the house here.”  John nodded as he looked over the menu.    
  
“So, what do you recommend?” John asked, making small talk.  Sherlock may have brought Fiona back to the house, but that did not mean he completely trusted the other man yet.  
  
Sherlock smirked and said, “Angelo’s menu is superb.  Anything you order will be to your liking.”  
  
“And what do you order?”  
  
“Usually nothing,” Sherlock said and glanced outside.  
  
“Wait, what?  Then how do you know that anything is good?”  John said as Angelo made his return and placed a candle on the table, giving them a huge thumbs up.  John narrowed his eyes again, “I’m not his date!”  
  
“Daddy, why do you keep saying that?”  Fiona piped up, chewing on her doll’s hair thoughtfully.    
  
“Because, sweetheart, that would mean that I or Mr. Holmes - “  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“ - would have a romantic interest in each other,” John said patiently.  
  
“And it’s not fine?”  Fiona asked.  
  
“Of course it’s all fine.  I’m just saying that I am, in fact, not gay,” John paused here, forgetting that he was talking to a five-year-old.  “Do you remember what I said about love?”  
  
“Yes,” Fiona said solemnly.  “You said that it doesn’t matter who people love.”  
  
“That’s right,” John said.   
  
“I’m confused,” Fiona said.  
  
John wanted to sink into the floor.  “You do remember that I said it’s all fine, correct?”  
  
“Yes, Daddy.”    
  
“Do I care?”  
  
“No, Daddy.”  
  
“Okay, then,” John sighed, knowing that this conversation wasn’t over in the least.  He rubbed a hand through his hair and caught Sherlock looking at him.  “Yes?”  
  
“Okay, you have questions,” he said simply, with a quirk of his eyebrow.  
  
“I suppose I do,” John said and plunged right in.  “Okay, then.  Who are you, what do you do?  The paper called you a detective, but you aren’t affiliated - officially -with New Scotland Yard.”  John paused thoughtfully.   
  
“What do you think?”  Sherlock asked, peering closely at the other man.  
  
“I’d say you’re more like a private detective...” John trailed off, thinking deeply.  
  
“But?”  
  
“But the police don’t go to private detectives,” John said as his thoughts came together.    
  
“I’m a consulting detective.  The only one in the world.  I invented the job,” John fought to keep from rolling his eyes.   _This man,_ he thought, _has a serious ego problem._  
  
“I pretend I’m a pirate,” Fiona said, startling the adults.  Sherlock gave her a strange look trying to deduce a hidden motive behind her words.    
  
“Not quite the same thing, Love,” John said affectionately and kissed the top of her head.  “What does that mean though, consulting detective?” he asked, once again turning to Sherlock and fixing him with a stare.  
  
“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me,” Sherlock said smugly.   _Ah, no ego at all._  
  
“The police don’t consult amateurs.”  Sherlock’s smirk widened into a full blown smile.  John couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Sherlock’s estimation of him edged up just a bit but had no idea what he had said  
  
“When I met you for the first time a few days ago, I said Afghanistan or Iraq.  You looked surprised,” Sherlock said, the cadence of his speech sped up enough for John to sit up and take notice.    
  
“Yes, how did you know?”  
  
“I didn’t know, I saw.  The haircut, the way you held yourself, says military.  The conversation as you entered the room - “  
  
“A bit different from my day,” John said, remembering.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  “ - said trained at Bart’s.  So, Army doctor, obvious.  Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists.  You’ve been abroad but not sunbathing.  The limp’s really bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, almost like you’ve forgotten about it.  So, it suggests that it’s partly psychosomatic.  That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic - wounded in action then.  Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq.”  
  
“You said I had a therapist,” John said, blinking as he listened to Sherlock’s summary of his injury.  
  
“He goes every Wednesday!  Her name’s Ella and I don’t think Daddy talks much to her,” Fiona said, interjecting.  
  
John’s forehead wrinkled.  “How would you know that I don’t talk much to Ella?”    
  
Fiona shrugged.  “I don’t know,” she said and began eating her plate of food that Angelo set in front of her.  “Thank you, Mr. Angelo.”  
  
“Ah, no need to stand on ceremony.  You may call me Angelo, little princess,” he said and patted her head while she giggled.  
  
“And then there’s your brother,” Sherlock said, gazing at Fiona again as if she were a fascinating puzzle piece.  
  
“Hmm?” John said, encouraging Sherlock to continue and gaining Sherlock’s laser stare again.    
  
“Your phone, it’s expensive.  Email enabled, MP3 player, you’re looking for a flatshare.  You wouldn’t waste your money on this.  It’s a gift then.  Scratches, not one, _many._ Notch marks, it’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins.  Not many would treat a luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner.  The next bit’s easy and you know it already.  Engraving on the back of the phone.  ‘Harry Watson From Clara xxx.’  Harry Watson, he’s given you his old phone.  Relative.  Not your father. This is a young man’s gadget.   Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find decent housing. Unlikely that you have an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to.  So, brother it is.  Now Clara, who’s Clara?  Three kisses says romantic attachment, expensive, the phone says wife not girlfriend.  The phone is only six months old and he’s just giving it away.   If she left him, he would have kept it.  People do sentimental things like that.  No, he wanted rid of it.  He left her.  He gave the phone to you that says he wants to keep in touch.  You’re looking for cheap accommodations and you’re not going to your brother for help.  That says you have problems with him...maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don’t like his drinking,” Sherlock said, finally taking a breath.  
  
John, dizzy from this explanation, cut in.  “How could you possibly know about the drinking?”  He looked down, gripping the glass in his hands.  John took a deep breathe before forcing himself to loosen his grip and returned the look he was being given.    
  
“Shot in the dark.  Good one though.  The power connection has scuff marks on it.  Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking,” Sherlock continued, ignoring the tension in John’s shoulders.  “You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone.  You never see a drunk’s without them.  There you go, you were right,” Sherlock finally stopped his monologue.  
  
“I was right?  Right about what?”  John was absolutely giddy.  Here was this man, a man he barely met not more than a week ago and he had deduced his entire relationship with Harry.  
  
“The police don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock said smugly.  
  
“Aunt Harry,” Fiona said, piping up beside John.  Sherlock jumped a little when he heard her voice.  “Aunt Harry is a girl.”    
  
“Have you been following all of this?”  John asked.  
  
“Yes.  I want dessert, Daddy,” Fiona said and gave him her best innocent eyes.  
  
“Damn, I always miss something,” Sherlock said.  “Sorry, pardon my language,” he added when he caught John’s glare.  “Harry short for Harriet.  Clever,” he said thoughtfully, looking back to John and Fiona.    
  
“What’s clever?” John asked.  
  
Sherlock did not answer him and John did not press him further.  Angelo appeared again at their table and Sherlock ordered a piece of chocolate cake to share, causing Fiona’s eyes to light up and grin at Sherlock, showing off her missing front teeth.  Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling back.     
  
John did not miss the exchange between the two of them.   _It seems he puts on this aloof front,  I wonder why?  Is this the reason why he can’t seem to keep a flatmate?_  
  
“I do want to sincerely apologize,” Sherlock said after a few moments of silence.  He looked away from John and Fiona and took a deep breath before continuing.  “What I said was idiotic, unkind and based on assumptions.”  John had the distinct feeling that apologizing was not something Sherlock Holmes did often.    
  
“Apology accepted,” John said and sat back.  Sherlock looked up in surprise.  “What?” John asked, shrugging his shoulders.    
  
“I...thank you,” he said.    
  
“You don’t usually apologize, do you?” John quirked an eyebrow.  
  
“No,” Sherlock replied and took a sip of his wine.  He caught Fiona looking intently at him.   _How many people can catch this brilliant madman,_ John thought, catching the surprised look in Sherlock’s eyes as he studied his daughter.  Fiona was fearless as she held Sherlock’s gaze and smiled a little as something unsaid passed between them.  
  
“I like you,” Fiona said suddenly, “You have interesting eyes,” she added, continuing with her meal and breaking his stare.  
  
John, amused, took a sip of his water while Sherlock blinked trying to clear his head.  Sherlock caught John looking at him and scowled before looking away.    
  
“Daddy,” Fiona said after a few moments of silence passed.  
  
“Yes, Love?”  
  
“When are we moving in?”  
  
It was Sherlock’s turn to hide his smirk as John sputtered.  Sherlock was sure that John could not resist his daughter’s large doe eyes and grinned even more.    
  
***  
  
 _One month later_  
  
“Sherlock!  Sherlock!  SHERLOCK!” John yelled, fairly positive that Mrs. Turner’s two married ones could hear him through the walls.  “Where in the bloody hell did you put my gloves?”  
  
“Experiment,” Sherlock said, not bothering to look up from his microscope.  
  
John resisted the urge to strangle him.  “You owe me a new pair of gloves then.”  
  
Sherlock merely grunted at him.  
  
John heard Mrs. Hudson open the front door as Fiona and his Mum stepped inside.  Sherlock’s expression and posture shifted slightly, making him appear even more unapproachable and surly.  John sighed.  “Be good,” John said, pointing a finger at Sherlock.  “I won’t have you scaring my Mum again, you got that?”  John didn’t expect an answer from him, instead turning his attention to the three people coming up the stairs.  
  
“Did you have a good time?” Mrs. Hudson asked Fiona.  
  
“Oh, yes!  I got to color all day and we went to the park today!”  Fiona said skipping up the stairs.  “There you are, Daddy!”  Fiona said, dropping Mrs. Hudson’s hand and jumping into John’s arms.    
  
“Hello, my beautiful girl,” John said, standing with one arm around his daughter and the other leaning on his cane.  “Sorry, I couldn’t make it to pick you up.”  
  
“That’s okay Daddy.  You had to work late,” Fiona said, wrapping her arms around his neck.  
  
“Thanks, Mum,” John said to his mother and kissed her cheek.  “Would you like some tea?”  
  
“No.  No thank you, Johnny,” she said, nervously glancing at Sherlock who was studiously ignoring everyone in the other room.  John sighed for what felt like the thousandth time since moving in with the madman.  “The both of you will be around tomorrow for dinner?”  
  
“Yes, Mum,” John said, kissing her cheek again.  “Thanks for watching her.”  
  
“No problem, Honey.  She’s a joy.  You know that.”  
  
“Bye Mum,” John said, seeing her and Mrs. Hudson out the door.  
  
“Oh!  Fiona!  Don’t forget to give your Daddy the envelope I gave you!”  Mrs. Watson said.  “It looks important.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Well, then, Fiona.  What’s this about an envelope?”  John said as he helped Fiona out of her coat.  
  
“I can do it!” Fiona cried, swatting John’s hands away.    
  
John grinned, asking“Well, what did your Nan give you?  And where is it?”  
  
“It’s pinned to my shirt,” Fiona said, ready to tug it off.  
  
“Here, let me do that,” John said as he unpinned the envelope from her shirt.  
  
“Hello, Uncle Sherlock!”  Fiona said and walked to the edge of the kitchen.  “What are you working on?”  
  
“The effects of a weak acid on leather gloves,” Sherlock said, not missing a beat.  
  
“On my bloody gloves, you great big giant git,” John muttered as he struggled to stand up.  “Did you eat, Love?”  
  
“Yes, Nan gave me a grilled cheese sandwich,” Fiona said and pulled her small box of toys closer to the fireplace.  
  
John nodded absently as he sat down in his chair with the envelope in his hands. His hands started to shake as he realized that it was addressed to Ms. Morstan, feeling the wind get knocked out of him.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught both Fiona and Sherlock staring at him.  He gave his daughter a bright smile while ignoring the curious look he received from his flatmate.  John began reading the letter and didn’t know what to make of the mysterious message.  
  
                Dear Ms. Morstan,

Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre tonight at seven o’clock.  If you are distrustful, bring two friends.  You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice soon.  Something that is rightfully yours will be returned to you.  Do not bring the police.  If you do, all will be in vain.  

  
                Your Unknown Friend.  
  
“Interesting.  The postmark is from London, dated recently.  Oh, there’s a man’s smudged fingerprint on the corner.  Hmmmm, probably the postman.  Shouldn’t eat while he’s delivery the post.  Good quality paper.  You don’t see this type of paper nearly as much.  Expensive, very, very expensive.  The fibers used to make the stationary came from the continent.  Ah, I see.  A very particular man with his stationary.  You don’t see that often now.  Does he prefer to write letters or does he not want to get caught?  Oh, of course, no address.  A very pretty little mystery,” Sherlock said, snatching the letter away from John’s hands.  
  
“Oi!  Is that addressed to you?”  John asked, slowly scrambling to his feet.    
  
“No, but neither is it addressed you,” Sherlock said smoothly.  “But the larger question remains, is it addressed to Mary or your daughter?”  He examined the letter and the envelope it came in, possibly looking for more clues.  
  
John sighed and tried to take the letter back, but Sherlock’s interest had been piqued.  He whisked the letter further away from John’s hands.  “Have you received any mysterious letters like this before?”  
  
“No,” John said, crossing his arms.    
  
“Think John,” Sherlock said and moved closer to him, placing his hands on John’s face.  
  
“What are you doing?”  John asked, trying to pull away.    
  
“Shush John.  I need you to concentrate.  Close your eyes,” Sherlock said, his voice low.    
  
“Daddy?”  Fiona asked.  
  
“It’s okay, Sweetheart, continue playing,” John said.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Concentrate!”  Sherlock said, shaking his head a bit.  
  
“Stop that!  What? What for?  What are you doing?”  John asked again, trying to get out of Sherlock’s grip.  Sherlock began twirling the two of them around, causing John to start wobbling, his grip barely on his cane.  
  
“I need you to maximise your visual memory. Try to picture it.  Picture whatever you have seen in the past regarding Mary.  Can you remember it?”  Sherlock’s voice was pitched low and soothing.  
  
“Sure, yeah,” John said humoring his mad flatmate.    
  
“Can you remember anything?”  Sherlock said.  
  
John sighed.  The memory of his first meeting with Mary was bittersweet.  “When I first met her, she was crying.  She said that she had received this letter, out of the blue, from her father who had been dead for ten years...I think I still have the letter somewhere,” John said, closing his eyes.    
  
“I know where it is, Daddy!”  Fiona cried and jumped up to go get it.  
  
John frowned at his daughter’s retreating back. He looked back at Sherlock who was still intently staring at John.  “Let go, Sherlock,” John said quietly.  Surprised, Sherlock stepped back and began studying the letter again.  A small frown of concentration crossed his face, a look John was not accustomed to seeing.     
  
“Morstan, Morstan, Morstan,” Sherlock muttered.  “That rings a bell...” Sherlock said trailing off.  “Tell me John, what did Mary do for a living?”  He fixed John with a piercing look.     
  
“She was a teacher and before that she was an au-pair.  Why?”  John’s forehead was wrinkled in concern.  
  
“Do you remember the name of the family she was the au pair for?”  Sherlock asked not moving his gaze from John’s face.    
  
John paused here, trying to remember the name of the family.  “Hmmm, Cecilia....Foster?  No, Cecilia Finnigan?  Cecilia Forrester.  Yes, that’s it.  Cecilia Forrester.  She was at the wedding.  Why?  Do you know her?”  There is no mistaking the micro-expression on Sherlock’s face:  shame and guilt.   _What’s the cause of this, then?_ Sherlock’s expression then morphed into disdain.    
  
“There was a case about seven years ago...I unraveled a little domestic complication.  Like all the other masses, she was quite impressed by my skill,” Sherlock said, turning away from John.    
  
“Hmmm, I think I see.”  It wasn’t like Sherlock to not crow about something fantastic he did.  “Sherlock, what aren’t you telling me?”  John asked suspiciously.  Sherlock studiously ignored him, opting instead to examine his clothing.    
  
“Sherlock,” John said adopting a harder tone of voice.  He attempted to reach a hand out to Sherlock only to have him slide away.  “Sherlock,” John said again.  “What is it?”  
  
“Nothing.  Nothing that you need to concern yourself with,” Sherlock said, nearly running John down to get the envelope to the microscope.        
  
“I found it Daddy!”  Fiona said, interrupting John’s train of thought.  She skipped back into the room and handed the letter and a worn leather journal to John.    
  
“Have you been keeping it all this time, Sweetheart?” John asked, looking at his daughter oddly while Sherlock filched the journal out of his hands.    
  
“Yes, Daddy,” she smiled.  “I like keeping  it.”  
  
“Why didn’t you show it to me?”  Something hard twisted in his chest.  
  
“I didn’t want you to get sad,” Fiona said.  John sighed.  “You do that a lot, Daddy.”  
  
“What do I do a lot?”  Jon asked, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
“Make that noise,” Fiona said, proceeding to mimic the sigh, earning a chuckle from John.  
  
“Ah, here, in her journal is Captain Morstan’s disappearance,” Sherlock said, breaking into John’s thoughts as he flipped through the leather bound journal.  
  
“Do you ever ask?”  John asked snatching Mary’s journal out of his hands.  
  
“Boring,” Sherlock replied and went to take the journal back.   
  
“Uh, no.  I don’t think so,” John said and briefly flipped through the journal himself.  “Mary’s father disappeared after the end of the Gulf War back in 1992.  He was helping with the clean-up of Kuwait City and was requesting a leave when he suddenly rescinded his leave and asked for six more months,” John paused in his summarizing of the journal, flipping through more pages.  “She was sent to live with her aunt while he was in the war.  Mary lost her mother when she was very young and had few relatives that Captain Morstan trusted,” Fiona had stopped her playing and was listening intently to what John was saying.  “After Captain Morstan was declared missing, her aunt died suddenly and Mary was placed in a foster home until she was of age.  From there she worked several jobs at a time to get through university.  Near the time I met her, she was working for Cecilia,” John stopped and fixed Sherlock with a stare.  “What was the case you solved for her?  I’d like to hear more about it.”    
  
“Perhaps later,” Sherlock murmured, avoiding John’s questioning look.  
  
“Anyway, Captain Morstan was supposed to come home and even sent a letter to Mary.  She has that tucked into the journal here,” John said, passing the letter to Sherlock.  “Captain Morstan telephoned Mary to come meet him but when she got there, her father was nowhere to be found.  She stayed around for a few more days before calling the police to alert them to her worries.  She never heard from him again.”  
  
“Nothing from the letter,” Sherlock said and handed the letter back to John.  “What do you plan on doing?”  
  
“I’m not sure.  I don’t know what this business is all about,” John said thoughtfully.  He glanced at Fiona who was looking back at him.  “I’ll have to think about it,” John finally said.  “Right Love, time for bed,” John murmured and picked up Fiona.  
  
“Oh, Daddy.  I don’t want to go to sleep,” Fiona yawned.    
  
“Right,” John said.  
  
Fiona pouted, “I think you should go.”  John stilled.    
  
“Why is that, Sweetheart?”  
  
“Mommy would want to know,” Fiona said.    
  
“You’re right, she probably would want to know, but I am still uneasy about this whole mess.   But it doesn’t hurt to look -” Sherlock shot him a smirk.  “- and we don’t necessarily have to meet up with this stranger tomorrow night if I think it’s too dangerous.”  Sherlock sighed.  “We should probably interview Cecilia tomorrow before we meet up with this mysterious stranger,” John concluded.  Sherlock paled, and John did not miss the look before Sherlock quickly covered his expression.“Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes.  Yes, you are right.  We should interview Mrs. Forrester,” he said, suddenly distracted.  “Good night, Fiona.  I will see if I still have my case notes regarding her case.  Good night, John,” he said and quickly left the room.  
  
“Good night, Sherlock,” John said, staring after him.


	4. Chapter Four

The next day, John dropped Fiona off, promising to call once they knew what was going on.   
  
“Good luck, Daddy!”  Fiona said happily.  “I’ll see you tonight,” she added, hugging him.  
  
“Thank you lovely girl,” John said, kissing her.  “Be good and listen to Nan, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Fiona said.  “Good luck Uncle Sherlock.”  
  
“Thank you Fiona, but we won’t need luck,” he said, wincing slightly as John nudged him in the ribs.  
  
“Thanks Mum,” John said, kissing his mother.  “Let’s go.”  
  
“Right, we need to interview Mrs. Forrester and probably visit Lestrade as well.”  
  
“Why?”  John was curious, he had not thought about going to see Lestrade at the Yard for this unofficial case.  
  
“He might have some insight and besides, it was a missing persons case.  He will have the cold case,” Sherlock said, studiously not looking at John.  John nodded and kept pace with his flatmate.  Since last night’s discovery and discussion, Sherlock was not his usual arrogant and talkative self.  He kept to himself and even consented to eat the nutella and toast that John set out in front of him.  John knew there was something off about Sherlock’s behavior, but couldn’t seem to pinpoint why his behavior had changed.  
  
 _Think Watson, think.  We talked a lot last night...what was it that made him so uncomfortable?_ John was so lost in his thoughts that he crashed into Sherlock’s back when the taller man suddenly stopped.  
  
“John?  Did you not hear what I said?”  he asked irritably.  
  
“No, I’m sorry I did not,” John sheepishly said.  
  
Sherlock sighed.  “I dislike repeating myself.  But since you were so lost in thought, I will excuse it this time.”  John wasn’t amused with Sherlock’s tone.  “Oh, don’t give me that look.  What I said, is that we should split up.  You interview Mrs. Forrester and I shall inquire about the cold case files from Lestrade.”  
  
“Ah, that sounds fair,” John said.  “It’s nine o’clock now, we’ll meet up at noon?”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  “Text me if anything interesting comes up.”  John nodded, watching his flatmate walk away.   _Now that was interesting,_ John thought, _if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he was avoiding talking to Cecilia._ He was still deep in thought as he walked the rest of the way to Cecilia’s house.  
  
“John, my goodness!  How are you?” Cecilia asked, smiling broadly before looking down at John’s cane.  “Oh, I do remember you being shot...Here, come into the living room and rest your leg.  I’m so terribly sorry about the state of my house.  I’m also so sorry about Mary,” Cecilia Forrester said all in a rush, clearing a space on her cluttered couch.  “She was such a lovely, lovely girl and I know you and Fiona miss her very much.”  
  
John smiled painfully.   _Oh, Watson.  You should have known better.  Of course, she’ll want to talk about Mary.  Is that why Sherlock didn’t want to come with me?_ “Thank you Cecilia.  I know Mary thought highly of you.  I must come by with Fiona one day so you can meet her properly.  She’s almost the mirror image of Mary,” John said, swallowing the lump and taking a deep breath.    
  
Cecilia was everything that Mary was not,  jittery, flighty and at the same time quick and stilted.  Mary loved her dearly, treating her like a mother and friend over an employer.  John bit back the affectionate endearment that Mary called her:  Hurricane Cecilia.  Cecilia’s ceaseless babbling brought John back to the present, forcing him to listen to her.  “Ah, you’re such a lovely young man.  Mary used to talk constantly about you.  Sometimes, it was all I could do to get her to shut up!  I could tell that she was head over heels in love with you and when she told me she was pregnant with Fiona she was so scared.  She didn’t know how you’d react.  I’m so glad you’re a sensible man.  I’m sure you’re a brilliant father,”  Cecilia said, patting John’s face.  
  
John’s smile turned a little brittle.  “Thank you, Cecilia.  It’s been difficult without her here, being a single dad and all.”  
  
“Oh, John.  I’m so sorry.  I’ve gone and upset you,” she tutted.  “Stay here, let me get some tea for us.”  
  
“No.  It’s fine.  I’m good.  It’s good.  It’s all good,” he said, taking a deep breathe.  “I actually came here to ask you a few questions about Mary’s father.”  
  
“About the Captain?  What about him?  Oh Mary was in a right mess when she couldn’t find him.  He’d been gone for so long and to have her aunt die like that as well.  Poor thing.  Luckily, she was a tough girl and managed to always do the right thing.  And then all those strange letters that came for her.  Terrible, terrible, terrible,” Cecilia said, wringing her hands a bit.  
  
“Wait, what letters?”  John asked, placing a hand on her arm to pause the  flow of conversation.  “What can you tell me about these letters?”  
  
“I can do better than tell you about the letters.  I can show them to you.  She asked me to keep them for her while she was settling in at your Mum’s house.  She forgot all about them and then...well, you know.  I’ll just be a bit.  Help yourself to some tea,” Cecilia said and left the room.  
  
John watched her retreating back a little numbly.   _Oh, my Mary.   You were such a strong person, weren’t you?_ He pulled out his mobile and updated Sherlock on what he had found out so far.  
  
                Might have something interesting here.  - JW

Seems Mary was getting letters from a mystery person.  Don’t know if it’s the same one or not.  - JW

                Will bring them with me.  - JW  
                Anything on your end?  - JW

No.  Lestrade is giving me grief.  Tedious.  Might have you come here to convince him to give us the files.  - SH

 

Didn’t insult him again, did you?  - JW

 

They are all incompetent children.  - SH

 

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

 

Keep working on him.  Tell him that as next-of-kin, I should have access to the files. - JW

  
“Here you go, John dear,” Cecilia said,  handing him a hefty packet of letters.  John was even more confused.  
  
“Why didn’t I know about this?” he asked out loud as he thumbed through the letters.    
  
“I don’t know, John.  She might have planned on telling you but never got around to it.  Mary just asked me to keep them all together.  I never opened them and she never told me what was inside.  All I know is that every year, around this time, she would get a letter.  She was always upset when these letters came in.  Said that they started coming to her nearly to the day that her father disappeared.  Strange business.  Very strange indeed,” Cecilia trailed off, remembering.  “Oh!  I have something else for you,” she said rummaging through a desk drawer.  “Here you go dear,” Cecilia said, handing a very confused John a partial strand of pearls.  
  
“What are these for?  Are these her’s?”  He asked examining the pearls.  “And where are the rest of them?”  
  
“That’s all she had,” Cecilia said.  “I think they came with the letters, myself.  She’d always string the pearl next to the other.  I don’t know why she only received one at a time.  Why not all at once?  I asked her once, but she only shrugged.  Oh, but look how beautiful they are!”  
  
John looked closely at the unfinished strand of pearls.  They were perfectly white, round, and smooth; John rolled them between his fingers marveling at the silky coolness.  “I think that these are very valuable indeed,” John said softly.  “I should get them appraised.”    
  
“That’s what I think as well!  Mary didn’t feel comfortable keeping them with her.  She said she didn’t have a proper place to keep them safe.  I told her that I’d keep them safe for her.  And now I’m going to give them to you.  I think these belong to Fiona, even if she is a little young.”  
  
John smiled crookedly.  “Yes, maybe I’ll make something out of these pearls that might be more appropriate for her,” he looked up at Cecilia.  “Thank you very much, Cecilia. You’ve been a big, big help to me.”  
  
“Oh, you’re welcome dear,” she said as they stood up.  “By the way, where are you living these days?”  
  
“Hmm?  Oh, right.  Fiona and I have a flatshare with this bloke named Sherlock Holmes,” John said, tucking the strand into an envelop.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes!  Oh, John, he must be doing better if he’s living with you and Fiona!  You’d never allow Fiona to be exposed to drugs!”  Cecilia exclaimed.  “He always seemed a bit sad, poor thing. Such, a dear boy too.  So brilliant and dramatic!  He had the face of an angel, the voice of the devil and a mind like quicksilver.”  
  
“Hang on, what?”  John stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
“Did he not tell you?”  Cecilia, for once, stopped in her tracks, sensing a shift in John’s tone.  
  
“No,” John’s mouth was now set in a firm line.  
  
“Oh, well.  When he solved my mystery for me - thank goodness that he did!  I still cannot believe Bernard would do such a thing to me! - that nice sergeant told me that he was high as a kite.  Well, the next thing I know, as he was giving the solution to the mystery - and while sergeant was taking Bernard away - in comes his brother and hauls Sherlock away threatening him to get clean.  Well, I didn’t hear much more of that because Bernard, stupid man, tried to run away.  Oh, dear.  That was such a sordid little affair.  Well, if you are living with him, then he _must_ have cleaned himself up.  Oh, good for him.  And good for you to keep him on the straight and narrow,” Cecilia said rambling on.  
  
“Ah, yes.  Thank you Cecilia.  I must be going now,” John said, trying to extricate himself from her presence.  
  
“Yes, I’m sure you have things to do and look at me, I’m rambling on.  Goodbye, dear!”  Cecilia called after him.  
  
 _I’m going to kill him.  I’m going to absolutely fucking kill him._  
  
John found a cab and made his way to New Scotland Yard.  He was seething over what he found out from Cecilia, and taking several deep breaths, John tried to reason with himself.    _Well, Watson.  Think things through, why don’t you.  You’re a doctor for god’s sake, what are the signs of an addiction?  You know them and he isn’t exhibiting any of them.  He may be annoying but he isn’t getting high currently._ John paused, trying to stop the speed of his thoughts. _Well, I can’t conclusively tell that he is not using but I will feel better after I grill the bastard on this._ John sighed, ruffling his hair.   _Nothing is ever simple, is it Watson?_  
  
The cab stopped and John paid the driver, making his way out.  He straightened his coat and walked purposefully into the Yard.   _We’ll discuss this later.  Right now, we’ve got a case to solve._ John nodded briskly at Donovan and Anderson as he passed them by on the way to Lestrade’s office where he could see Sherlock talking animatedly to Lestrade.   _Well, talking at is more like it rather than talking to him,_ John thought wryly.    
  
Lestrade looked like he wanted to throttle Sherlock, and against all reasonable sense, hadn’t done so.  When John caught Lestrade’s eye and gave him a stiff nod, Sherlock caught the direction of Lestrade’s gaze and whirled around.  Looking at John, he oculd see the anger in John’s posture.   _Difficult bugger.  Already knows that I’m angry with him.  Well, one thing at a time, Watson.  One thing at a time._  
  
“Well, what did you find?”  John asked, trying to erase the tension in his shoulders.  
  
“Unfortunately, the Yard was ever so helpful in the case of Captain Morstan.  There’s nothing in these notes that are particularly worth reading.  What did you find?”  Sherlock asked.  A slight quirk of the eyebrow was his way of acknowledging that something was troubling John.   _Yes,_ John thought, _they would be talking about this later._ “Cecilia Forrester was keeping a bundle of letters addressed to Mary,” John said and handed the packet over to Sherlock.  “It also seems that these letters contained a single seemingly perfect pearl,” he added and carefully took out the unfinished strand of pearls.    
  
Lestrade whistled appreciatively as Sherlock took them and examined them closely.  “Perfectly round, rarest and indeed the most valuable shape for a pearl.  These are natural and one hundred percent calcium carbonate and conchiolin.  In Hindu scriptures pearl powders help with digestion and in treating mental ailments.  Not to be outdone, Jesus compared the Kingdom of Heaven to a pearl of great price.  Interestingly enough, in Islam, it is mentioned that those within paradise are covered in pearls,” Sherlock paused in his monologue and looked at John.  “I believe these pearls from the Persian Gulf.”  
  
“Because Captain Morstan was stationed in Kuwait during the Gulf War?”  John asked.    
  
Sherlock was momentarily stunned but regained his mask of aloofness.  “Precisely, but to find this many valuable pearls in one location...”  Sherlock trailed off before handing the pearls back to John.  “Come John, we have half a day to prepare,” he said and swept out of Lestrade’s office.    
  
John caught Lestrade’s eye again and shrugged.  “I’ll fill you in later,” John muttered and went after Sherlock.  “Thanks for the files,” he added.  
  
“You’re welcome, you nutters,” Lestrade said, waving them on.    
  
“The more I hear about this, the more my gut tells me not to see this mysterious person sending Mary letters.  Did you see the pearls?  We should get them appraised if they’re worth what I think they might be worth,” John said, rambling a little.  Sherlock did not respond.  “What?  Don’t tell me that you’re bored with this mystery already!”  
  
“No, it’s not that,” Sherlock said slowly.  
  
John sighed.  “Look, Cecilia told me about your addiction.  However unsettling and upsetting that may be to me, we _will_ be talking about this later,” John took a deep breath, clearing his mind of the anger.    
  
“John, I...” Sherlock began.  “No, you are right.  One thing at a time.”  His attention shifted to the letters he held in his hand.  He plucked the top most letter out of the bundle and examined it.  “There isn’t much to go on with this letter.  It’s from the same person who sent the latest letter, mind you.  Same paper, same handwriting and same post office.”  
  
“I don’t think we should meet them,” John blurted out at the same time that Sherlock said, “I think we should meet them.”  They looked at each other seriously before small smiles cracked the tension.    
  
“I really don’t,” John said.  
  
“But we should,” Sherlock replied.  He turned his all seeing gaze on John.  “Mary would have wanted to know.”  
  
John’s eyes narrowed.  “Don’t you dare bring Mary into this.  Things would be different if Mary were still alive.”  
  
“Indeed they would be.  But you know I am right.  Mary would want to know.  She’d want to know what happened to her father.   _Fiona_ has a right to know what happened to her grandfather,” Sherlock said.    
  
“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” John said through gritted teeth.  
  
“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock replied smoothly.    
  
John’s mobile chimed with a text.  
  
                If you want to see your daughter alive again, you’ll come tonight.  
  
John’s forehead wrinkled as he dialed his mother’s number.  
  
“Mum?”  John asked.  He could hear someone screaming in the background.  
  
“Oh, god, John!  They’ve taken her!  They’ve taken Fiona!” Mrs. Watson said, sobbing.  
  
“What?”  John said.  Sherlock’s head whipped around.  “Who’s taken her?  Who has my daughter?”  
  
“I don’t know John.  I don’t know.  I tried to stop them.  But they hit Harry and I when we did.  Oh, god, John!  What are we going to do?”  John could hear sirens wailing in the background.  
  
“I’m going to get her back is what I’m going to do,” John said and hung up.


	5. Chapter Five

For the better half of the afternoon, John paced 221b worried and wanting to murder someone.  Every once in awhile he’d throw up his hands and threw venomous looks at the clock.  After pacing, John began to clean his gun, making sure it was ready for whatever lay in store for them tonight. Sherlock, for once, kept his head down and continued to examine the letters and the pearls.  He was careful not to destroy the pearls while he peered at them through his microscope.    
  
Finally, after what felt like forever, it was nearing the time of their rendezvous.  
  
“Time to go,” John nearly shouted at his flatmate.  He tucked the gun behind his back and made sure he had spare bullets with him, then he nearly sprinted down the stairs with Sherlock close behind him.  The cab ride to Lyceum Theatre in the West End was deadly quiet, with John running through scenarios and possibilities and Sherlock thinking.  John sent a quick text to his mother and went back to staring out the window.  He caught Sherlock giving him sidelong glances, but when John turned to address the other man, Sherlock had gone back to gazing out the window.  
  
They arrived at their destination, amongst a crowd of theatre goers, and got out of the cab with both men feeling ill at ease.  Sherlock adjusted his coat and John looked around for anyone suspicious.    
  
“Besides us,” Sherlock said and turned to look at John.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You were looking for someone suspicious looking and I was merely stating the fact that we would look suspicious to other people.  Not that they would be looking, mind you.  Most people are unobservant fools,” Sherlock said before adding, “you are on occasion, but for most of the time you are not...which is surprising.”  
  
“Was that a compliment?”  
  
“Yes, don’t let it get to your head,” Sherlock said and looked around.  “Ah, you see.  There in the shadowy corner is a man who hasn’t stopped looking at us since we stepped out of the cab.  Honestly, it’s almost amateurish in how he’s dealing with this.  Come on, John,  Let’s go,” Sherlock said and pulled himself impossibly taller.  John nodded, his posture straighter.   
  
“Well, what are we going to do?”  John finally asked.  
  
“We’re going to ask what he wants and who he thinks he is,” Sherlock said.  “Be prepared,” he added quietly.  
  
“I always am,” John said.  
  
“Excuse me gentlemen, I am waiting for my friend,” the man in shadows said politely with barely concealed distress.  John detected a hint of a Middle Eastern accent.  
  
“Iraq,” Sherlock said to John.  “You’ll be a long time waiting then,” he said to the mysterious man.  
  
“Oh?  Why is that?”  He said and shifted slightly, a move both Sherlock and John noticed.  John reflexively went for his gun while Sherlock’s gloved hand tightened into a fist.  
  
“You’re waiting for a woman dead almost six months,” John said, his eyes turning hard.  
  
The change in the other man was noticeable, his shoulders slumped and he breathed out loudly before cursing and looking around again.  “What happened to her?”  
  
“No, no.  I believe you have all this the wrong way around,” John slipped a hand around the man’s upper arm.  “We have questions and you’re going to get to tell us what we need to know,” he said and looked around himself.  
  
The mysterious man nodded and allowed himself to be steered toward a bench, still looking around all the while.    
  
“Why did you keep sending these letters to Mary?  What has she done?  Why are you trying to contact her?  Why do you send her one pearl a year on the anniversary of when her father disappeared?  Do  you know what happened to Captain Morstan?”  John asked, launching into his questions.  Sherlock placed a hand on his arm, giving him a look, causing  John to relax and scoot back a few inches.  “Sorry.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Lost my head there,” John composed himself, still giving the unknown man the eye.  He glanced around the thinning crowd, trying to find the people making the man nervous.    
  
“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend Captain John Watson.  Captain Watson is...was Mary Morstan’s husband,” he said and gestured for the other man to introduce himself.  John gave Sherlock a grateful look.  Sherlock may not have been the most considerate man most days, but when he was, it made John smile a little.  
  
“My name is Thad Sholto, Captain within the Iraqi Army.  I am indeed very sorry for your loss, Captain Watson.  I had never met Ms. Morstan but I was friends with her father, Robert.  He was a good man.  He would have been pleased to know that his daughter married an Army man,” Sholto sighed, still nervously looking around.  “Look this would be easier if we went to my estate and I can tell you the story in private...away from prying eyes and ears.”  
  
John looked at Sherlock who nodded imperceptibly.   “Right then, who exactly are we running away from?”  
  
“Please, we must leave here immediately.  If they find out that Ms. Morstan is deceased then all is lost,” Sholto said, showing greater signs of distress.    
  
“Fine then, let’s go,” John said and stood up.    
  
“Please follow me to my car,” Sholto said and walked towards the parking garage.  They reached Sholto’s car when he turned to them.  “I must insist that you wear these,” he said and handed John and Sherlock blindfolds.  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  John said.  “I’m not wearing this!  This is ridiculous!”  
  
“I’m afraid I’m not kidding.  You must put this on.  It is for your own safety,” Sholto said, keeping his voice low.  
  
“Well, I’m afraid that I’m not kidding when I say no,” John said resolutely.    
  
Sholto sighed.  “I was afraid you’d say that.”  
  
“What do you mean - “ John said before Sholto drew a gun on them.  Sighing, John threw his hands in the air.  “Typical.”  
  
“Put your hands down John, “ Sherlock snapped.  “He doesn’t want to draw that much attention to us and if we are waving our hands in the air, that would surely draw whomever is coming after him.”  
  
“You are smarter than you look, Mr. Holmes,” Sholto said and waved them to the back seat of the car.    
  
“So, I’ve been told,” Sherlock said, drily.  “Oh, look John.  He’s even prepared handcuffs for us,” he said as Sholto covered his eyes and locked his wrists behind him.  “Our gracious host has thought of everything for us.  Why didn’t we think of this before?”      
  
“Oh, shut up,” John said before the chloroform rag knocked him out.  
  
***  
  
John groaned when he tried to sit up, only vaguely remembering what happened to them.  Once the dizziness wore off he quickly realized the action was impossible because he was still handcuffed to something or someone else.  
  
“Don’t fight it,” Sherlock said, his voice low and gravelly.    
  
“We’ve been kidnapped,” John said, fighting his panic in his attempt to regain his bearings.  
  
“Obvious, however, if need be we can always find our way back,” Sherlock said, his voice returning to normal.  
  
“And how would we do that?” John asked, rattling his handcuffs.  
  
“Because I know where we are,” Sherlock said, his voice betraying his boredom.  Suddenly, John’s hands were freed from the handcuffs.  “Ah, there we go.  Much better.”    
  
“Got them undone have you?”  Sholto said from the front seat.  “Please keep the blindfolds on, at least.”  
  
“No guarantee of that, mate,” John muttered.    
  
“On, off, it doesn’t matter Sholto.  I know where we are,” Sherlock said.  “We’re on Rochester Row currently, passing onto Vincent Square.  There’s a lovely Indian place that we should go to sometime.  Ah, now we’re on Vauxhall Bridge Road - “  
  
“How on earth do you know where we are if you’re still blindfolded?  Never mind that,” John said irritably.    
  
“ - We’re heading towards Surrey, apparently. We’re going cross the Thames, interesting, but not unexpected.  Well, we’re not going to a very up and coming part of London, now are we?”  Sherlock continued, ignoring John.  Finally, the car rolled to a stop and Sholto freed them from the backseat.  
  
“What in the bloody blue blazes was that all about?”  John asked, wanting to punch Sholto.  
  
“Please, it had to be done.  There were people following us,” Sholto said, throwing his hands up.  
  
“He’s right, John, there were people following us.  I suggest we get inside before they find us out here and decide to eliminate us once and for all,” Sherlock said drily.  
  
John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself.  “Yes, yes.  Let’s get inside and have a cup of tea before I punch someone.”  
  
Sholto threw Sherlock a grateful look before digging his keys out of his pocket.  “Let’s go,” he said and led them to a ramshackle house.    
  
 _Before the night is over I’m going to bloody well punch someone,_ John thought irritably.  He looked at the house and sighed again before straightening his posture and entering.  Inside, the house was nothing like the outside.  Lush carpets lined the floors, expensive looking vases sat on marble pedestals and paintings that surely should have been in museums lined the walls.   _Someone is going to extremes to hide his wealth, aren’t they?_  
  
“I know that the outside does not match the inside.  Mr. Holmes, you probably can guess the reason why,” Sholto started.  
  
“I don’t _guess,_ Mr. Sholto, I _deduce._  The fact of the matter is you feel guilty for your wealth and you feel that some, if not a majority of, this wealth should go to Ms. Morstan, instead of giving Mary her fair share, you decided to keep this for yourself.  Ah, but there’s more to this story, isn’t there?”  Sherlock said smoothly.  “This wealth was ill-gotten, most likely discovered during your time in the first Gulf War.  Perhaps it was taken from a family bargaining it for their lives?  Most likely it was stolen and divided in equal parts - there were four of you to be precise.  You, Captain Morstan and the two other people who are after you and your share.  Perhaps, they killed Captain Morstan for his share when they became greedy.  Am I correct in my _guesses_ Mr. Sholto?”  Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.  Sholto just nodded dumbly.  “What am I missing?”  
  
“The part where we killed the good Captain Morstan and then his beautiful daughter, Mary,” said a hidden voice.  “Oh, hello, Sholto.  Did you seriously think that you could outrun us?”  A man stepped into the living room, his face was scarred from ear to ear and he was missing an eye.  In his hand he gripped a gun while the other leaned heavily on a cane.  
  
“You killed Mary?”  John’s voice dipped hard and cold as his eyes narrowed in anger.    
  
“Ah, Captain Watson.  A pleasure it is to meet you, finally.  As Mr. Holmes has pointed out, the treasure we stole was from a family bargaining for their lives.  Once they handed it over, Captain Griffin - the fourth in our party - shot them dead.  The Captains Morstan and Sholto were naturally very upset at this turn of events but we were very persuasive and thus kept their mouths shut.  Well, until Captain Morstan wrote that unfortunate letter to Mary that is.  He had to be taken care of quickly,” he said and adjusted his stance.  “Oh, where are my manners?  My name is Captain Christopher Stevens,” he said and smiled menacingly at them.  “Oh, Captain Watson, you should have seen the look on your wife’s face as Griffin barreled towards her.  She was so valiant in pushing your mother and your daughter out of the way.  It was a thing of beauty.  Mary wasn’t scared at all, in fact she stared down Griffin as he hit her.  Turned Griffin around the bend that one did.”    
  
John twitched, wanting nothing more than to punch this sadistic man over and over again.  He saw Sherlock move slightly, waiting for a signal from John.    
  
“No.  None of that now, gentlemen,” Stevens said.  “You wouldn’t want your precious daughter hurt now would you Watson?”  
  
“What have you done with my child?”  John asked through gritted teeth.  
  
“Ah, nothing.  Yet.  Just cooperate with us and we can all walk away from this terrible episode whole and unharmed,” Stevens laughed.  “Oh, except for me of course.  I’m scarred for the rest of my life.  Got caught in some wicked crossfire.  It fucked me up enough to take the rest of my money to stitch me back together.  When I woke up, they told me I was lucky.  Lucky to still have both my arms, legs and eyes.  Do you know who was lucky?  The men who died.  They don’t have to live the rest of their lives scarred, damaged, and shunned.  That’s what I have to look forward to.  Lucky me.  Even you, Captain Watson, you got out lucky.  You still have your legs.  You’ve got your dead wife’s money.  You’ve got that daughter of yours.  I’ve got nothing and now I’m going to take what should be mine.”  John shivered as his grip on his cane tightened.  Never in his life had he ever wanted to kill a man with his bare hands.   _But there is a first time for everything,_ John thought.   _If he hadn’t been invalided back to London, he would have been discharged._  
  
“By the way, your mum might have a slight concussion,” Stevens said as John growled.  “But first things first.  There are loose ends to tidy up.”  He turned to Sholto.  “Your kind heartedness will be your downfall, Sholto.  Say hello to the Morstans,” Stevens said before pulling the trigger.  
  
John and Sherlock yelled, jumping to Sholto as he slid to the ground.  “I’m so very, very sorry, Captain Watson.  I know Captain Morstan only wanted better for Mary, but if we had known the ending, we would have never have taken the treasure.  Please forgive me,” Sholto said as his eyes slid shut.  
  
“Damn it!  You said you would let us live if we cooperated with you!  What in god’s name is wrong with you!”  John screamed at Stevens.    
  
“Look at me, Watson!  I have nothing left after that landmine.  The money is all I have to keep going and that bastard wasn’t going to give me a cent of it,” Stevens said, then pointed his gun at John.  “But you, you will give me Morstan’s share of the money if you want your daughter to live.”  
  
“I have no money!”  John cried out.  “If you had done your research you would have known that Mary and I had no money!  None!”  
  
“I don’t believe you!” snarled Stevens.  “It doesn’t matter anyway, because Griffin has your daughter and you will lead us to where you keep the money.  I know Sholto sent a pearl each year to your precious Mary.  Those pearls alone will help with the rest of the surgeries.  Give them to me,” he demanded.  
  
John stared at Stevens hard.  “I am not going to hand over what was originally stolen back to a thief.”  
  
Stevens scoffed.  “What are you going to do?  Give them back to dead people?  You’re dumber than you look if you think you can right all the wrongs in the world.”  
  
John laughed hollowly at him.  “I don’t intend to right all the wrongs in the world,” he said.  “I am going to kill you and Griffin for murdering my wife.”  
  
“I’d love to see you try,” Stevens said, gesturing to his weapon.  “I’m the one holding the gun.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then you will have no problem watching your friend die,” Stevens said and pointed his gun at Sherlock.  John tensed and continued to stare Stevens down.  “I’m not joking, Watson, I will fucking kill your friend unless I get what I want.”  To prove his point, Stevens shot at Sherlock’s feet causing both men to jump back in alarm.   
  
“Stop, stop, stop!  Fine!  Fine.  Fine, I’ll give them to you, but what proof do I have that you’ll actually let us live if I give the pearls?” John asked, gritting his teeth.  Sherlock regained his composure and regarded Stevens with an extremely bored expression.  
  
“You don’t.  You’ll just have to trust me,” Stevens said and smiled darkly.  
  
John turned to Sherlock who only gazed back at him with a neutral expression.  John nodded slightly, noticing that Sherlock’s hand had tightened into a fist.  He knew that Sherlock would follow his lead in this, just like Sherlock knew that John would follow him anywhere he went.  “They’re in my jacket pocket,” John said, turning to Stevens and made a move to reach into his jacket.  
  
“Ah, no.  I will be getting those pearls, if you don’t mind,” Stevens said and limped over to John, shifting the gun to the hand with the cane and awkwardly trying to hold both at the same time.  
John blinked at Sherlock who sprang into action, grabbing Stevens by the neck and throwing him to the ground.  The cane clattered somewhere behind Stevens as his other hand grabbed wildly for the gun, pointing it at Sherlock the same time John was able to point his own weapon at Stevens. “Stupid, stupid,” Stevens said panting hard.  “Now we are at an impasse, gentlemen.  Can you pull the trigger before I kill Sherlock?”    
  
John narrowed his eyes and smiled devilishly, causing Stevens to waver a bit upon seeing the crazed grin on John’s face.  John knew many people like this in the Army, people who thought that just because they held the weapons they had every right to take what they wanted.  The silence stretched out between the three of them and John could see that Stevens was beginning to falter.  Sherlock, sensing an opening, lunged forward again and knocked Stevens head against the floor just as he fired at Sherlock.  Sherlock coughed and waved the gun smoke away.  He looked back at John who nodded at him with both hands on the gun.  Sherlock looked back to Stevens and discovered the shot was perfectly between Stevens’ eyes.    
  
Sherlock blinked,drew a breath, and stood up.  “Good shot,” he said, trying to keep his mouth from quirking up.    
  
“Thank you,” John said and hastily put the gun away.  “We don’t know where Griffin took Fiona.”   
  
Sherlock did smile this time.  “Oh, but we do John,” he said as he scrolled through Stevens’ mobile, looking through the text messages.  “Waterloo, that’s about eight kilometers away.  Come on, we need to hurry.  If Griffin thinks something happened to Stevens - “ Sherlock cut himself off, glancing at John and seeing the murderous look on his face.  “I’ll find us a cab while you text Lestrade about these two,” he said instead.  
  
John nodded tersely as they rushed out of Sholto’s house. John felt sick; sick that Mary had been _murdered_ and that he wasn’t anywhere near her to prevent it; sick that Mary’s father had been wrapped up in this stupid and vicious gang in the first place; sick that Stevens and Griffin thought that he had the rest of the money and sick that his daughter, _his precious daughter,_ had been forced into this sadistic game.  He texted Harry briefly to tell her to check on their mother and then proceeded to ignore all frantic texts coming from her.    
  
                John!  Answer your phone!  
  
                I know. - JW  
                I’m going to find the bastard who took her.  Just get Mum to a hospital. - JW  
                Take care of her.  - JW  
  
                John!  Answer me!  
  
“We’re here,” Sherlock said quietly.  They paid the cab and got out walking the rest of the way to the bridge.  They could see two figures on the bridge, a tall figure and a small figure who was desperately trying to get away from him.  John could have screamed bloody murder.  “Calm yourself John,” Sherlock said.  “We need our wits about us.”  
  
John nodded, briefly placing a comforting hand on his gun.   _Mary, help me.  Help me get our daughter back._ John squinted in the semi-darkness trying to get a read on the man who had kidnapped his daughter, hurt his mother and killed his wife.    
  
“Griffin,” John said calmly, “let my daughter go.”   
  
“Where’s Stevens?”  Griffin asked, clutching Fiona closer to him as she struggled.  “Stop it girl,” Griffin hissed at Fiona, then looked back to John.  “You wouldn’t want anything to happen would you?”  
  
“Daddy,” Fiona whimpered, still struggling.  
  
“Where do you think,” Sherlock sneered.  “Where he should be and where you’ll be shortly.”  
  
“Courage Fiona, courage,” John said.  “Did he hurt you?”  
  
Fiona shook her head.  “I want to go home.”  
  
“I know, baby.  Just hold on,” John said soothingly.  “Let her go, Griffin.  It’s over,” he said,  his voice turning hard.  
  
“No, give me the money and then you can go,” Griffin said, glancing wildly around.  “Where’s Stevens?  Where the fuck is he?”    
  
“Was it Stevens who killed that family?  Or was it you?  Tell me, Griffin, I’m dying to know,” John said.  “Stevens told me that you went a little crazy after killing my wife.  How did that feel having my wife stare you down, fearless, as you took her life away?  I bet you blinked as you did it.  Just to save what little soul you had.”    
  
“Give me the money.  I swear I won’t kill you,” Griffin said, his voice rising rapidly.  John could feel Griffin losing his grip on his sanity.  Time was running out.  
  
“Sorry, I never recieved any money.  Did you know that?  Course not, none of you did your research.  I have no idea where Morstan’s money is.  Mary never saw it, I never saw it and Fiona certainly never saw it,” John continued slowing inching his way to Fiona.  
  
“Give me the pearls,” Griffin said, his eyes looking wilder and wilder.  
  
“What’s so special about these pearls?”  John asked.    
  
“They’re worth a lot of money,” Griffin replied.  The closer John and Sherlock came to the man, the more desperate he became.  “I need that money.  I need my next fix.  I need it.  I need it!”    
  
“I’m sure you do,” Sherlock said.  “They kicked you out of the army because of your drug use didn’t they?  Couldn’t help but steal from everyone.  Perhaps that’s where you were introduced to the cocaine, wasn’t it?  You wanted more of that high, that special kind of euphoria didn’t you?  It made you confident, likeable maybe, and more energetic.  Ah, but then there’s that horrible little crash after the euphoria.  The whole world comes closing in on you and reality rears its ugly head,” Sherlock continued disdainfully.    
  
“Shut up.  Shut up.  Shut up.  You don’t know what you’re talking about!  You’re too good for the likes of me!” Griffin said desperately.  
  
“Oh, I don’t do I?  I know exactly how it feels.  The intense euphoria, the feeling that I could be _normal_ around people ah, but then the crash comes and I realize that everyone, everything couldn’t live up to my expectations.  How disappointing the world is after seeing such wasted potential,” Sherlock replied, his eyes hard.      
  
“Give me the pearls or I’ll throw the brat into the water,” Griffin said and hoisted Fiona up and dangerously close to the edge.  Fiona screamed and started kicking and squirming.  “Stop moving, you little fucking brat!”  Griffin yelled and promptly threw her into the water.    
  
“Fiona!”  John screamed, running to the edge.  “Fiona!”  John, high on adrenaline, immediately jumped into the water after his daughter.  He did not hear the ensuing scuffle on the bridge and the resulting bang.    
  
“John!  John!”  Sherlock screamed over the edge.  Griffin was face down on the pavement, blood pooling around him.  Sherlock pulled out his mobile and frantically texted Lestrade.  “John!”  Sherlock peered into the water trying to see where John and Fiona went.  He ran to the riverbank and pulled out a small flashlight shining it into the water.  Frantic minutes went by as no sign of the two appeared.  Finally, finally, Sherlock heard a sputter as John’s head shot through the water.  He began swimming towards Sherlock, Fiona in tow.  Sherlock, diving in, met John halfway and dragged them both onto the bank.    
  
“John!  Are you alright?”  Sherlock frantically asked.  
  
“She’s not breathing, Sherlock!  Fiona’s not breathing!”  John replied, his eyes spilling with tears.  “Fee, my beautiful baby girl, please wake up.  Wake up for Daddy,” John said over and over.  “I can’t lose you too.”  John began hyperventilating, flashing back to the war and the young men and women that he couldn’t save.  Sound was in his ears and pushing every coherent thought out of his head.  He saw blood and dust and felt the heat of the battleground.  John shuddered, blinking and it was Mary  on the ground dying, her eyes staring at him, pleading with him to help her.  
  
“John!  John, focus!  You’re a doctor!”  Sherlock said, shaking his friend.    
  
John stared blankly for a moment before shaking his and performing CPR on his daughter.  After some long and stressful moments, Fiona finally coughed up water and gasped before dissolving into sobs.  “Oh, I’ve got you, Fiona.  Daddy’s got you.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so very, very sorry,” John said, taking her into his arms and rocking back and forth.  
  
Sherlock sat down on the bank, placing a comforting hand on John’s back and waiting for Lestrade and an ambulance to arrive.


	6. Epilogue

A week later found John and Sherlock back at Baker Street.  John lost the pearls in the Thames diving in after Fiona, leaving the two of them practically penniless again.  He found that he did not mind it so much this time; they were alive and that’s all that really mattered.  They would get by, John would make sure of it.    
  
Fiona was a tough little girl, _much like her mother,_ John thought fondly.  His grief over Mary’s death was beginning to lessen each day and while he missed her terribly, her memory did not make him weep openly.  Fiona was his rock, his touchstone.  She kept John grounded in reality and prevented him from sinking into a deep depression.  He glanced at Fiona, who was playing cops and robbers next to the fireplace with her new favorite blanket wrapped around her shoulders.    
  
“Orange, sweetheart?  Your favorite blanket is orange?”  John asked her, chuckling.  It reminded him of the blankets emergency personnel handed out to people in shock.    
  
Fiona only looked up.  “Uncle Greg gave it to me,” she said and smiled, pulling the blanket tighter around her.    
  
“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked, looking up from his microscope, his grey eyes unblinking.    
  
John and Fiona looked at him incredulously.  “That’s Lestrade.  His first name is Greg,” John said.  “How do you not know  that?”  
  
“Dull, deleted, took up too much space,” Sherlock said and went back to his samples.   
  
Fiona giggled.   “Uncle Sherlock, you’re very funny.”  
  
Sherlock turned looking at Fiona.  “I wasn’t being funny.”  He stared intently at Fiona, gathering as much information about the little girl as he could.   
  
“Come on, up you go, my girl,” John said and picked up Fiona, blanket and all.  “Tell Uncle Sherlock good night.”    
  
“Good night, Uncle Sherlock,” Fiona said.  “Thank you for saving us,” she added.  Sherlock looked  surprised and confused.  
  
“Oh, um, you’re welcome,” he finally said.  If John noticed the slight blush to Sherlock’s cheeks, John was good enough not to mention it as he took his daughter to her room.  
  
Settling Fiona into her bed, John tenderly touched her face.  “You look so much much like your mum,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat.  “She would’ve been so very proud of you.”   
  
Fiona smiled shyly.  “I know I make you sad sometimes, Daddy,” she said, hugging her doll and hiding from John.  
  
“Fiona!  Why would you ever think that?  I’m never sad because of you.  Never.  Just because you are like your mum doesn’t mean that I love you any less.  Also, if I didn’t have you, I wouldn’t have any reminder of her.  So don’t you ever think that I’m sad because of you.  Do you understand me, Fiona?”  John asked, feeling his heart break.  Fiona nodded as John hugged her tightly.  
  
“Daddy?”  Fiona asked, squinting her eyes, looking around her messy room.  
  
“Yes, Love?”    
  
“Where’s your cane?”  
  
John blinked, “I don’t know Sweetheart,” he said and wished her a good night.  He stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down at his legs as he tested putting all of his weight on each leg and lifting the other.  John noted the complete lack of pain, grinning widely.  He started walking down the stairs, slowly at first, before breaking into a sprint.  Stopping just before the kitchen, he schooled his expression on his face, knowing that Sherlock already knew.  
  
“Sherlock?” he asked cautiously.  
  
“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, barely glancing up from his microscope.  “You never needed the cane.  As I said before, your limp was psychosomatic.  You dropped it when you shot Stevens.”  He paused here with a definite quirk of his mouth, “You’re welcome, by the way.”  Sherlock looked up, the amusement evident in his eyes.    
  
“What?”  John asked before giving up all pretense of being annoyed or angry.  He bumped his shoulder against Sherlock’s, chuckling.  “Just get the eyeballs in a proper container before Fiona finds them,” he said, settling into his chair.  “Mad bastard.”  
  
Sherlock huffed in amusement and went back to his experiment, pleased.  
  
John knew that things were never going to be normal at Baker Street, but he found that he no longer minded as much.  He and Fiona were going to be all right.  

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are always welcome.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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